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THE LOOM 







H 

— 







ALEC WAUGH 


/ 






























































































































M: 


































































“To him who desireth much, much is given, 
and to him who desireth little, little is given; 
but to neither according to the letter of his desire. * * 
—GILBERT CANNAN. 


THE 

LOOM OF YOUTH 

BY 

ALEC WAUGH 

u 

WITH PREFACE BY 

THOMAS SECCOMBE 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


* 






PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


My dear Father, 

This book, which I am bringing you, is 
a very small return for all you have given me. In every 
mood, in every phase of my shifting pilgrimage, I have 
found you ever the same — loving, sympathetic, wise. 
You have been with me in my success, and in my 
happiness, in my failures and in my disappointments, 
in the hours when I have followed wandering fires. 
There has never yet come to me a moment when I did 
not know that I had but to stretch out my hand to find 
you at my side. In return for so much, this first book 
of mine is a very small offering. 

But yet I bring it to you, simply because it is my 
first. For whatever altars I may have raised by the 
wayside, whatever ephemeral loyalties may have swayed 
me, my one real lodestar has always been your love, 
and sympathy, and guidance. And as in life it has 
always been to you first that I have brought my 
troubles, my aims, my hopes, so in the world of ideas 
it is to you that I would bring this, the first-born of my 
dreams. 

Accept it. For it carries with it the very real and 
very deep love of a most grateful son. 


A. W. 





PREFACE 


Les oceans souleves n*ont pas reussi a, ebrecher le verre d’eau. Des 
millions d’hommes s’entre-tuent, des empires chancellent, les races 
sexterminent et les prefaces demeurent . — Robert de Flers. 

§ i 

T HE author of the present work came under my obser- 
vation in the capacity of a Gentleman Cadet at the 
Royal Military College. 

He entered there, I think it was in August 1916, and 
already had some military experience, for he had been 
training for a few months in the Inns of Court Battalion, 
Berkhamsted, but he looked young even in comparison with 
the average eighteen years of the Sandhurst boy, and his 
manner by its freshness and apparent impressionability 
made him seem younger yet. His officers in “F” Company, 
to which he was assigned, were, I believe, a little astonished 
at the full flow of his impressions on arriving at Sandhurst, 
a form of confession to which a great number of young 
warriors find themselves liable on arriving at the R.M.C., 
but nothing could be more impenetrable than his almost 
obsequious air of complete innocence and utter obedience. 
I have wondered since whether this air might possibly be 
a protective mask, sedulously cultivated by those who have 
carried the practice of ragging — and the ironical treatment 
of preceptors generally — to the level of a fine art. Asso- 
ciations of the past prescribed a measure of hospitality to 
this particular cadet, and I was glad to have an opportunity 
of inviting him to my house, and seeing as much of him 
as I could. He soon attained his stripes as a Corporal, and 
then as a Cadet Sergeant in his company, and therefore 
had rather more liberty in obtaining leave; and it was in- 

vii 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


teresting for me to see a cadet of this new generation ob- 
viously well adapted to his work, and so dissimilar from the 
average type of embryo officer. By coming to Sandhurst 
it is understood, of course, that he had committed himself 
and his career to the Army as a regular profession. 

The ingenuus puer, the ostensible innocence to which I 
have referred, was carried to a high pitch by Alec, as we 
called him in remembrance of a long-severed acquaintance 
at a time when he distinguished himself by crawling about 
our dining-room table; he almost lisped with a deference 
which it would be impolite to call affected; but I could 
hardly fail to discover in his judgment a sublime contempt 
for all the fatted calves of nineteenth-century altars, as he 
might have called them. To these fanatical worshippers, 
these partial advocates of Les Jeunes — and I have come 
across several of them — Rupert Brooke is a mellow classic, 
while the Churchyard Elegy, In Memoriam, Shropshire Lad , 
Swinburne, Arnold, Morris, and I rather think Masefield, 
certainly De la Mare, are hopelessly superannuated. These 
young men are sublimely unconscious of the havoc they are 
dealing out among cherished ideals. I suppose we all know 
them, and manoeuvre or fumble — as the case may be — in 
our attempt to keep them at arm’s length, generally by the 
invocation of such well-tried traditionalists, and almost pro- 
fessional babe-queliers, as Rabelais, Swift and Fielding, 
with some help perhaps from Madame Bovary and Barry 
Lyndon. For some mysterious reason I have nearly al- 
ways found these characters immune from the malaria of 
contempt for the old school which these sucklings have 
elevated into a kind of science. Their contempt for criti- 
cism, their conviction that critics are confessed failures 
in literature and art, is complete. Another rod that they 
have in pickle for the tremulous voice of authority is the 
sublime faith that “those who can, do, while those who 
can’t, teach.” This choice sucket, which they regard as 
the beginning and end of wisdom, comes consolingly to the 
ears of one whom the chances and caprices of life have 
thrown casually upon the preceptorial bench. But what 


PREFACE 


IX 


vivacity, and what thera . r y in regard to the seamy 
problems in literature an se ne of this young genera- 
tion do manifest! The the most positive conviction 

that their elders have m ? on: nmate muddle of things, 
while they are feverish] ious not to forgo the intense 
individualism or idiotic selfishness (as you happen to re- 
gard it) which has made the work of the present adult 
generation such a hopelessly complicated and ironical im- 
broglio. Nor will they waste any time in setting to work. 
I was surprised to find that my young friend Alec, on leav- 
ing his Public School at seventeen, had harnessed his views 
at once, not to the poetic drama, which used to be the liter- 
ary aspirant's first love, but to the philosophic poem and 
the tendenz novel of the latest phase of fictional evolution. 
He produced a massive novel in typoscript, written amid 
the tumults of the Devil's Own training camp, which the 
cursed spite of the moment it appeared had somehow mis- 
handled. I gauged its bulk with an eye of profound mis- 
giving; there was a good deal of manuscript meandering 
among the typoscript, and the book was admittedly a novel 
of school life. I thought with a reminiscent shudder of 
Stalky & Co., the praise and dispraise of Harrow-on-the- 
Hill, Rugby in the sixties, the active and passive insolence 
of Winchester and Eton, the ignominy of Farrar, and the 
calculated falsity of Talbot Baines Reed. I was agreeably 
disillusioned. Contact once made, the manuscript was con- 
sumed almost at a draught; the schoolboy and the school- 
girl found it absorbing; but for the fact that it was easily 
divisible into sections the demand for it might have given 
rise to some dissension. It combined, it would appear, two 
qualities hardly ever found associated in school books: 
objective reality — the result of close proximity to the sub- 
ject — and the faculty of prose composition, not in unfalter- 
ing technique, but perfectly adequate as a vehicle of literary 
presentment and self-expression. Monotony was avoided, 
traditional cant eschewed. Here then is a story of the 
Public School as it is, or was, in the year of grace 1915. 
The confirmation of its truth is to be found in the fact that 


X 


; 


it explains — it contributes in an important measure to an 
understanding of — Wh wc are ‘/here we stand to-day. 
What was it that Dr. aid about Chatterton? I 

felt impelled to use the words in amazement at 

this realistic effort, writ 11 o months, on a theme that 
has baffled the most ex; t writer, by a lad of seventeen. 

The facts are literally as I have set them down, though 
many, after a perusal of The Loom of Youth , will, I must 
believe, regard them as scarce credible. 

§ ^ 

They are going to do wonders, the new generation, by 
the Divine Right of Youth — that is to say, superior genius. 
To accomplish them will entail some effort, for the task 
involves nothing less than the transformation of the Public 
School, and its strangely associated gods of Olympia and 
Ecclesia Anglicana. 

The present volume touches the spot — Tyranny of the 
Bloods, which has been evolving into a hide-bound system 
ever since the Public School assumed its present monopoly. 
It has developed a good deal since I remember it in work- 
ing, during which time both the code and language of the 
Bloods has become distinctively more Red Indian than it 
ever was in my remembrance. The questions of school- 
boy honour, schoolboy language, and other matters, are 
treated in these pages with an instructive discretion. If 
parents had the slightest idea of the language their boys at 
school habitually use (and which is often attributed to the 
coarsening influences of Sandhurst) they would perhaps 
be considerably astonished. Another distinctive feature 
which these pages bring into relief is the inimitable incuria 
which has become the mental uniform of this in many ways 
admirable but intellectually enervating system. You may 
drudge at games — that is the theory — that is commendable ; 
but to drudge at the acquisition of knowledge is pitiable, 
and not to be endured. That is the faith of the Public 
School boy, which except he believe he cannot be saved. 
It has fairly helped, you may say, to get us out of the mess 


PREFACE 


xi 


of August, 1914. Yes, but it contributed heavily to get 
us into it! The workings of the system are most incon- 
gruous ; it inculcates a kind of realism which depends upon 
ignoring the realities of the situation and the interde- 
pendence of modern States ; out of ostensible Imperialists it 
creates the most inveterate Little Englanders, who know 
of nothing but isolation, and whose valuations are ex- 
clusively insular. The limitations which placed Edwin and 
Morcar in the soup at the Norman Conquest are just a 5 
prevalent to-day as they were in 1066. England is top dog, 
that’s enough! The best is good enough for us! No en- 
tanglements; in case of complications, it is manifestly best 
for us to look on as in 1870 and do the best we can. A 
general war of course is absurd, who dares ! Look at our 
Navy! Germany, nonsense! What, spoil the beauty of 
their best customer! Look at our Empire, and our Trade, 
and our Shipping, and our World Finance, and our all- 
conquering Formula — no violence, no cruelty, just “Live 
and let live,” with the grudging addition — in very small 
print — “And the devil take the hindmost.” 

Too late the sentimentalists realise that there is another, 
a rival Formula in the field — the “do as you are told” tradi- 
tion of coercive discipline, and the startling assumption — 
it is we who supply the better man and make the biggest 
sacrifice, it is we who are going to sustain the white man’s 
burden; our army and diplomacy shall give us, if not Ant- 
werp to Bagdad then Hamburg to Bagdad, and that will do 
as a minimum basis for world domination. The world is 
being shaken up, and our Laboriositas, our persistence, our 
political backing, and the sabre’s rattle, will give us the 
best sites and the best markets. 

Yet, “Wake up, England!” doesn’t mean, to the hearing 
of those who put their ears to the ground, more business 
men; England, Scotland, Judea, produce plenty of these 
already. It means rather a little more liveliness in realising 
the actual situation, more altruism, even a little more eta - 
tisme if necessary. Too much of this last quality makes 
the Germans stupid, just as too much learning makes the 


X1L 


PREFACE 


Germans dull. Hence their pedantic barbarism. Yet we 
could, it is admitted, do with a little less thought of Number 
One, and a little more consideration for the State, even in 
liberty-loving England. The author of The Loom of Youth 
told me he had specialised in History: he had discovered 
that by this means he could cut down school hours to a 
minimum. Speaking from experience, I can commend this 
part of the book as quite startling in its fidelity. Our Public 
School youth dislike history, it seems. I recently asked 
some candidates from some of the most expensive schools 
in Britain, who were trying their hands at a General Knowl- 
edge Paper, to name five great historians ; and the follow- 
ing are a representative selection — Homer, Virgil, Oman, 
Ovid, Micklejohn, Dr. Johnson, Pluto and Tout; and the 
history that they served up was quite on a par with their 
choice of historians. Ladysmith was a siege in the Indian 
Mutiny, or a town in which Lord Kitchener was surrounded 
by the enemy during the whole of the Boer War ; Paradise 
Lost was written by Shakespeare; Utopia by Guy Thorne; 
Cetewayo was a great Roman conqueror; The Canterbury 
Tales written by Charles Lamb; the Tuileries, mountains in 
Italy. I should like to make an authentic list of them, one 
hundred strong, with the names of the Public Schools that 
perpetrated them appended. But this dearth of direction 
of a boy’s natural interest in such subjects as the geography, 
the elementary economics, the politics, the culture, the 
aversions and pretensions of the various countries in the 
Europe of to-day, seems to me to spell bankruptcy, if the 
Public School is going to retain its ascendancy over the 
growing generation. It means a blank cheque to the Man- 
darins, who keep at arm’s-length any popular attempt at a 
vivid interest in the family history of Europe. It seems to 
me like a deliberate attempt to keep alive the old stupidity 
of splendid isolation. It reminds me of a succinct general- 
isation I heard fall from the lips of a common soldier en- 
training at Farnborough in August, 1914: “I am going to 
fight the bloody Belgians, I am going to fight the whole 
bloody lot.” 


PREFACE 


xiii 

Of all the opinions I have received from the Front, not 
one has given me greater pleasure than this which I received 
the other day from an officer in the R.F.A. : “I do hope tO' 
God you are going to teach the young batch something of 
history, the history of the world we live in; will anything 
else matter so much!” If we don't look to it, this war 
will make indifferents, Hedonists, Pyrrhonists, Anarchists, 
Supermen and Super-Anglicans, rather than mere Chris- 
tians. Christianity I am convinced might be the cure for 
war if we could only apply it. But as we can’t, as things 
are, we have to place an interim faith in insurance, and 
for this the only specific seems to be the armed Leaguer, the 
co-ordination of diplomacy and protective armour. Before 
this war three millions a week would do what fifty millions 
cannot accomplish now; but our pride and humbugging 
hypocrisy, “Free” trade, the playing fields theory, the Vol- 
unteer theory, and denominational philanthropy, forbade. 
The young officers in France to-day have this to decide for 
the future, at any rate, for the twenties and thirties. What 
are they going to do about it! For my part, I think they 
should throw off the debris of party attachments, the pa- 
thetic watch-words and callous consistencies of Cobden 
and Smiles, and should take history in their hand as they 
go. A certain amount of human curiosity and human sym- 
pathy, with the needs, the griefs, the sufferings, the glories, 
and the aspirations, of their European neighbours would 
not come at all amiss. To know the price of security, let 
the youth of England learn to know what England has 
thought and suffered. We need hardly invoke a stern de- 
termination to keep war and its horrors at arm’s-length by 
the surest method that can be determined. The methods of 
Christian Science have been tried, and have been found 
wanting. The unity of war, its problems, its causes, its 
almost inevitable persistence, until at least men begin to 
practise charity at home — these are plain for all to see, and 
these must be in large measure our themes. I believe that 
they are of transcendent importance to-day. The Trades 
Union of Public School Instructors do not seem to have 


XIV 


PREFACE 


assimilated the point of view. The Bloods system for the 
rank and file, plenty of compulsory Chapel and Divinity, 
and a specialised Sixth Form for Saps, that seems to be 
the unchanging ideal. 

Cuckoos and gypsies indeed! We should be sorrier to 
lose those Public Schools with all their engaging frailties. 
Shrewsbury, Magdalen, Worcester — school, college, ca- 
thedral close — how wooingly they sound: they stand for 
what we have known as Old England — the Old England 
which the old lady of the last century preferred to heaven. 
It may not be much older than the present plutocracy which 
has “growed” since 1832, but it stands to us for the past, 
immemorial, almost unchangeable. And yet a great deal of 
this “Lanchester Tradition,” which is largely the tradition 
of a sham “Merrie” England that never was, is bound to 
go. One hundred years since the old trinity of School, 
Varsity and Church won the European War, when England 
stood with its back to the wall against a tyrant. The last 
gleams of this particular chivalry and of the grim old 
square chins who fought in Crimea and at Lucknow have 
wellnigh passed. It cannot, unassisted, save the Allies of 
1917, though it has fought as bravely and as unreservedly 
as of old. But success had sapped the vitals of its old per- 
fect self-confidence and we must now have a new worship, 
new ideals, a more imaginative and communistic form of 
society and . . . Education must be irradiated. It is seen 
how women (backward though they still are) by finding 
ideals have made education more interesting than men — 
or rather, perhaps, than men have succeeded in making it. 
Here surely the future of England lies, and our Public 
Schools, with their noble heritage and glorious material, 
must discover their share. There will have to be a con- 
siderable shattering of Perrins, Trails and tin gods gen- 
erally. The Athletic god is a fine and a clean and in the 
main a necessary one, but its monopoly makes Patriotism 
far too small a thing. This book shows how, and its record 
is true. 

Glencairn. T. S. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK I: WARP AND WOOF 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Groping 19 

II Finding His Feet 27 

III The New Philosophy 38 

IV New Faces 52 

V Emerging ’ 62 

VI Clarke 73 

VII When One Is In Rome 81 

BOOK II: THE TANGLED SKEIN 

VIII Quantum Mutatus 95 

IX Healthy Philistinism 120 

X Tin Gods 139 

XI Through a Glass Darkly 152 

BOOK III: UNRAVELLING THE THREADS 

XII Common Room Faces 159 

XIII Carnival 198 

XIV Broadening Outlook 209 

XV Thirds 216 

XVI Dual Personality 229 

XVII The Games Committee 233 

XVIII Rebellion 242 

XIX The Dawning oe Many Dreams 248 


xv 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


BOOK IV: THE WEAVING 

CHAPTER PAGE 

\ XX The Twilight of the Gods 265 

XXI Setting Stars 282 

XXII Alba Ligustra 286 

XXIII Romance 294 

XXIV Vaccinia Nigra 298 

XXV The Dawn of Nothing 303 

XXVI The Things That Seem 315 

XXVII The Tapestry Completed 336 


BOOK I.— WARP AND WOOF 


“While I lived I sought no wings, 

Schemed no heaven, planned no hell; 

But, content with little things, 

Made an earth and it was well.” 

Richard Middleton. 



















THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


CHAPTER I 
GROPING 

T HERE comes some time an end to all things, to the 
good and to the bad. And at last Gordon Caruthers’ 
first day at school, which had so combined excitement and 
depression as to make it unforgettable, ended also. Sel- 
dom had he felt such a supreme happiness as when he 
stepped out at Fernhurst station, and between his father 
and mother walked up the broad, white road that led past 
the Eversham Hotel to the great grey Abbey, that watches 
as a sentinel over the dreamy Derbyshire town. There are 
few schools in England more surrounded with the glamour 
of mediaeval days than Fernhurst. Founded in the eighth 
century by a Saxon saint, it was the abode of monks till 
the Dissolution of the Monasteries. Then after a short 
interregnum Edward VI. endowed it and restored the old 
curriculum. The buildings are unchanged. It is true that 
there have sprung up new class-rooms round the court, and 
that opposite the cloisters a huge yellow block of buildings 
has been erected which provides workshops and laborato- 
ries, but the Abbey and the School House studies stand as 
they stood seven hundred years ago. To a boy of any im- 
agination, such a place could not but waken a wonderful 
sense of the beautiful. And Gordon gazing from the 
school gateway across to the grey ivy-clad studies was 
taken for a few moments clean outside himself; and the 
next few hours only served to deepen this wonder and 
admiration. For Fernhurst is prodigal of associations 

19 


20 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


The School House dining-hall is a magnificent oak-panelled 
room, where generations of men have cut their names; and 
above the ledge on which repose the silver challenge cups 
the house has won, is a large statue of King Edward VI. 
looking down on the row of tables. When he first entered 
the hall, Gordon pitied those in other houses immensely. 
It seemed to him that though in “the outhouses'’ — as they 
were called at Fernhurst — the eugenic machinery might be 
more up to date, and the method of lighting and heating 
far more satisfactory, yet it could not be the same there as 
in the School House; and he never quite freed himself of 
the illusion that, if the truth were known, every outhouse 
boy rather regretted that he had not chosen otherwise. 
For indeed the bloods of other houses are very often found 
sitting over the fire in the School House games study. 

Until about six o’clock Gordon could not have been 
happier, his future seemed so full of possibilities. But 
when his father and mother left him to catch the afternoon 
train back to town, and the evening train brought with it 
a swarm of boys in the most wonderful ties and socks, and 
all so engrossed in their own affairs, and so indifferent to 
his, Gordon began to feel very lonely. Supper was not till 
nine and he had three hours to put in. Very disconsolately 
he wandered round the green slopes above the town where 
was the town football ground and where in the summer 
term those members of the Fifteen who despised cricket 
would enjoy their quiet pipe and long for the rains of 
November. But that walk did not take long, especially 
as he did not dare to go out of the sight of the Abbey for 
fear of getting lost. When he returned to the House the 
court was loud with shouts and laughter. Everyone had 
something to do. There was the luggage to fetch from the 
day-room. The town porter, known generally as Slimy 
Tim, was waiting to be tipped. Health certificates had to 
be produced. There was a sporting chance of finding in 
Merriman’s second-hand bookshop — out of bounds during 
term-time — an English version of Vergil and Xenophon. 
There were a hundred things to do for everyone except 


GROPING 


21 


Gordon. There were several other new boys, doubtless, to 
be found among this unending stream of bowler hats. But 
he saw no way of discovering them. He did, it is true, 
make one attempt. Very bravely he walked up to a rather 
bored individual who was leaning against the door that 
led into the studies and asked him if he was a new boy. His 
reception was not friendly. The person in question was 
Sandham of the Lower Sixth, who had been made a house 
prefect and was very conscious of it, and who was also 
well aware of the fact that he was not very tall. His 
friends called him “The Cockroach”; and Gordon was told 
politely to go elsewhere. He did not, however, go where 
he was told to, but sauntered sadly down to the matron’s 
room, only to find it full of people all with some complaint. 
Some had lost their keys, others were furious that their 
people should have been charged for biscuits and sultana 
cake that they had never had, but the greater part were 
wanting to know why the old bathroom had been turned 
into a study for the Chief’s secretary, while they had been 
given in exchange a lot of small zinc hip-baths. T6 the 
smaller members of the House this change was rather 
popular. On the days when there were only four baths 
among eighty, it did not matter very much to them how 
large they were, if they were always occupied by the bloods, 
while however small the new baths might be, there were 
sufficient to go round. The bloods did not look on the 
matter in this light. 

Gordon walked from room to room utterly miserable. 
Nobody took the slightest notice of him, only one person 
asked his name, and that was a small person of one term’s 
standing who wanted to show that he was a power in the 
land. At last, however, the old cracked bell rang out for 
supper, and very thankfully he took his place among the 
new boys at the bottom of the day-room table. Evening 
prayers in the School House had once been rather a festive 
occasion, and a hymn chosen by the head of the House was 
sung every night. It had been the custom to choose a 
hymn with some topical allusion. For instance, on the 


22 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


evening when the House tutor had given a hundred lines 
to every member of the day-room for disturbing a masters* 
meeting, by playing cricket next door, they chose Fierce 
raged the Tempest o’er the Deep; and on one occasion 
when an unpopular prefect had been unexpectedly expelled 
the House was soothed with the strains of Peace, Perfect 
Peace. But those days were over. A new headmaster 
had come with an ear for music, and the riot of melody 
that surged from the V. A. table seemed to him not only 
blasphemous, but also inartistic. And so hymn-singing 
stopped, and only a few prayers were read instead. 

On this particular evening the Chief was in high spirits. 
It was characteristic of his indomitable kindliness and op- 
timism that, though he ended every term in a state of ex- 
haustion, having strained his energy and endurance to the 
breaking-point, he invariably began the new term in a spirit 
of geniality and hope. It was not till years later that 
Gordon came to understand the depth of unselfish idealism 
that burned behind the quiet modesty of the Chief; but 
even at first sight the least impressionable boy was conscious 
of being under the influence of an unusual personality. 
There was nothing of the theatrical pedagogue about him ; he 
surrounded himself with no trappings of a proud authority. 
His voice was gentle and persuasive; his smile as winning 
almost as a child’s. The little speech with which he 
welcomed the House back, and a passing allusion, half 
humorous, half appealing, to the changes in the bath-rooms 
were perhaps too homely to impress the imagination of 
the average inhuman boy. But they were the sincere 
expression of the man — an idealist, with an unfailing faith 
in human nature, founded in an even deeper faith in 
Christianity. 

When he had gone, Gordon ventured to look round at 
the sea of faces. On a raised dais was the Sixth Form 
table. In the middle, haughty, self-conscious, with sleepy- 
looking but watchful eyes, sat the captain of the House, 
Lovelace major, in many ways the finest athlete Fernhurst 
ever produced, who had already got his County cap and 


GROPING 


• 23 

played “F_ugger” for Richmond. Gordon had seen him 
bat at Lord’s for the Public Schools v. M.C.C., and before 
he had come to Fernhurst, Lovelace had been the hero of 
his imagination; ambition could hardly attain a higher 
pedestal. 

There were about twelve in all at the Sixth Form table, 
of whom the majority were perfects; and no one could 
leave the hall till one of them went out. After a few 
minutes’ conversation, in which no one ate anything, 
although plates of hot soup were busily provided, someone 
got up and went out. Immediately there was a rush 
towards the door, and Gordon was borne down the long 
winding passage to the foot of the stairs that led to the 
dormitory. Here, however, for some reason, everyone 
stopped and began to talk at the top of their voices. Gordon 
saw no reason for the delay, but thought it better to follow 
the throng, and waited. As a matter of fact, the last 
train up from town had just come in. There are some who 
always demand the last ounce of flesh; there are always 
those who return by the last possible train, although it 
stops at every station on the way. Suddenly, however, 
the House tutor shouted from the top of the stairs, “Lights 
out in the upper dormitories by nine-thirty,” and the pro- 
cession moved upstairs. 

The upper dormitories in the School House were, like 
most other school dormitories, a dismal spectacle. There 
was a long passage running down from the House tutor's 
room, and on the left were doors leading into long, bare 
rooms, with the usual red-quilted beds and the usual 
washhand basins. On the right-hand side was the bath- 
room. The upper dormitories were occupied by the 
smaller boys of the House. Once a prefect had been put 
in charge over each room, but the system did not work 
very well, and soon came to an abrupt end, so that there 
was only the House tutor to keep them in order till the 
prefects went to bed in the lower dormitories an hour later ; 
and then any sound was promptly dealt with. Gordon 
had been placed in the largest room, which was known as 


24 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“the nursery.” It contained ten beds, and only four of 
its inhabitants were of more than one term’s standing. 
Among other less enviable claims to fame, it had the 
reputation of being the finest football-playing dormitory, 
and every night its members would race up from supper to 
play their game before the House tutor came to put out 
lights at nine-fifteen. The new boys took it in turns to 
keep “cave,” and it must be owned that for the first few 
weeks the sentinel rather preferred the role of onlooker 
to that of player, and found it hard to sympathise with 
those who were continually flinging abuse at the huge 
football crowds at Stamford Bridge. This night there 
was, of course, hardly any ragging. There was so much 
to talk about, and some faint interest was even taken in 
the new boys, for two very important-looking young people. 
Turner and Roberts, swaggered into the dormitories “just 
to have a squint at the new kids,” but after a casual inspec- 
tion Turner said in a lordly manner, “Good lord! what a 
crew,” and the pair sought better things elsewhere. Turner 
and Roberts were very insignificant people during the day- 
time: they were little use at games, and even a year’s 
spasmodic cribbing had only managed to secure them a 
promotion from the Second Form to the Third. But when 
the evening came they were indeed great men, and ruled 
over a small dormitory that contained, besides themselves, 
only four new boys who looked up to them as gods and 
hung on their every word. 

But very soon the wanderings of these two gentlemen 
ceased, and at the sound of the House tutor’s tread down 
the passage they fled very ingloriously to their own abode. 
Mr. Parkinson, the House tutor, was one of the most popular 
masters in the school. He had only just missed his blue 
at Oxford, and since he had gone down had devoted all 
his energies to training on the junior members of the House 
at football and cricket. He was in rather a hurry this 
particular evening, as he had to make out the list of studies, 
but he shook hands with everyone, and asked all the new 


GROPING 


25 

boys their names before turning out the lights, with in- 
structions not to kick up too much row. 

At last Gordon was at rest. For ten hours at least he 
would not have to worry about anything. He lay back 
in bed contentedly and listened to the conversation. As 
was natural, the talk was at first only about the holidays, 
but it soon drifted round to school politics, and one Bradford 
began to hold forth on the composition of the Fifteen, 
as if he was the captain’s bosom friend. To Gordon, of 
course, most of the names mentioned signified nothing. 
He gathered that the great Lovelace was going to be captain 
and was sure to have rows with Buller the games master, 
but besides this he picked up very little. Gradually the 
conversation turned on individuals, and especially on a 
certain Meredith, who was apparently a double-first, with 
a reputation that did not end on the cricket pitch. 

“You know I think Meredith goes a bit too far at times,” 
came a voice from the middle of the room. 

Bradford rose at once. “What the hell do you mean? 
Meredith go too far ? Why, he is a splendid wicket-keeper, 
and far and away the finest half-back in the school. You 
must allow a good deal to a blood like him.” 

“Oh, I know he is a magnificent athlete and all that, but 
don’t you think he does rather a lot of harm in the House?” 

“Harm? Who to?” 

“Well, I mean there’s Davenham now and ” 

“Davenham!” came the scornful retort. “What does 
it matter what happens to Davenham? He’s absolutely 
useless to the House, rotten at games and spends his whole 
time reading about fossils. Who cares a curse about 
Davenham !” 

“Oh, I suppose you are right, but ” 

“My dear ass, of course I am right. Meredith is a simply 
glorious fellow. Do you remember the way he brought 
down Freeman in the Two Cock? Why, the House simply 
couldn’t get on without him.” 

To Gordon all this conveyed very little. He had no idea 
who Meredith or Davenham were. The only thing he 


2 6 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


realised was that for those who wore a blue and gold ribbon 
laws ceased to exist. It was apparently rather advan- 
tageous to get into the Fifteen. He had not looked on 
athletics in that light before. Obviously his preparatory 
school had failed singularly to keep level with the times. 
He had always been told by the masters there that games 
were only important for training the body. But at 
Fernhurst they seemed the one thing that mattered. To 
the athlete all things are forgiven. There was clearly a 
lot to learn. 


CHAPTER II 


FINDING HIS FEET 

T HE new boy’s first week at a Public School is probably 
the most wretched he will ever pass in his life. It is 
not that he is bullied. Boots are not shied at him when he 
says his prayers ; he is not tossed in a blanket ; it is merely 
that he is utterly lonely, is in constant fear of making mis- 
takes, is never certain of what may happen next, and so 
makes for himself troubles that do not exist. And when 
Gordon wrote home to his people at the end of his second 
day it did not need a very clever mother to read between the 
lines and see that her son was hopelessly miserable. 

His worries began at once. On the first day of term 
discipline is, of course, very slack. There is only an hour’s 
work, which is, for the most part, spent in finding out what 
books are needed. There is no preparation set for the 
evening, breakfast is at eight-thirty instead of seven-forty- 
five, and it does not matter how late anyone comes in. 
And so when, at eight o’clock, the School House butler, 
who had watched many generations pass by with the same 
imperturbable smile, walked down the dormitories ringing 
a horribly cracked bell, no one paid any attention. There 
was tons of time. Ordinarily no one ever got up till the 
quarter, and to-day — well, twenty past would be ample. 
A voice from the end of the room muttered drowsily: 
“Damn that bell.” But besides that nothing happened. 
Gordon was fearfully perplexed. He had expected everyone 
to leap out of bed, seize a towel and rush to the shower- 
bath, but no one had moved. Could it be possible that 
they were still asleep and had not heard the bell? It 
seemed incredible, but it might be so. And if it were, ought 

27 


28 


L THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

he to wake them up? It seemed rather cheek for a 
new boy, but then, supposing the whole dormitory were 
late. 

Greatly daring, he stretched out a hand and touched 
the arm of the boy sleeping next him. The individual 
in question merely turned over subconsciously and said 
something fierce. Gordon relapsed into a state of terror. 
During the next quarter of an hour he passed through all 
the miseries of an unknown fear. Only twenty-four hours 
ago he had been at breakfast with his father and mother in 
his home at Hampstead. It seemed years ago. Here he 
was face to face with horrible, unexplained things. The 
suspense grew unbearable. He was sure he heard someone 
moving next door; the others were getting up; he would 
be late his first day. What a start! But just as he was 
visioning the most dire punishments, James, an insignificant 
person of one term's standing, slowly pushed back the bed- 
clothes, picked up a towel and lethargically moved towards 
the door. Gordon jumped up, happy at last, and made for 
the huge new bathroom. It had an iron floor, sloped so as 
to allow water to drain off easily, and contained six small 
baths and showers fixed above them. The room was 
practically empty. He was glad of this; he did not want 
to have a shower with a lot of people looking on. The 
water was very cold — he was used to a tepid bath ; but by 
the time he had begun to dry, the place was full of boys all 
shouting at once. No one is more loud or insistent than he 
who has just ceased to be labelled new. He likes everyone 
to know how important he is, how free and how unfettered 
by rules, and the best way to this end is to shout and curse 
everything. The room was filled with shouts of “Good God ! 
are we expected to get clean in babies' tubs?" “What 
a fool the Chief is." “Oh, damn your eyes, that's my 
towel." “No, there's yours, you blasted idiot." Gordon 
was immensely shocked at the language. He had come 
from a preparatory school run by a master with strong 
views on swearing, and for that matter on everything. 
He had been kept thoroughly in order. He got out of the 


FINDING HIS FEET 


29 ! 

bathroom as quickly as possible and made for his dormitory. 
It did not take long to dress. There was indeed very little 
time, and as the half-hour struck, he was carried down in 
the throng to the dining-hall. 

Breakfast is always rather a scramble, and nowhere more 
so than at a Public School. The usual Femhurst breakfast 
lasted about ten minutes. Hardly anyone spoke, only 
the ring of forks on plates was heard and an occasional 
shout of “Tea” from the Sixth Form table. They alone 
could shout at meals, the others had to catch the servant’s 
eye. To-day, however, there was a good deal of conversa- 
tion. Those who had come by the last train had not seen 
all their friends the night before. There was much shaking 
of hands. In the middle a loud voice from the head of 
the Sixth Form table shouted out: “Silence! I want to 
see all new boys in my study at nine o’clock.” It was 
Clarke, the head of the House, who spoke. He was tall, 
with pince-nez, one of those brilliant scholars who are too 
brilliant to get scholarships. He was a fanatic in many 
ways, a militarist essentially, a firebrand always. There 
was bound to be trouble during his reign. He could never 
let anything alone. He was a great fighter. 

Gordon looked up with immense awe. Clarke looked so 
powerful, so tremendous; even Lovelace himself was not 
much greater. He wondered vaguely what would be said 
to them. 

And indeed Clarke was even more imposing in his own 
study. The back of the room sloped down into a low 
alcove in which hung strange Egyptian curtains. The 
walls were decorated with a few Pre-Raphaelite photo- 
gravures. Behind the door was a pile of cases. Clarke 
sat with his back to the window. 

“Now you are all quite new to school life,” he began, 
“entirely ignorant of its perils and dangers, and you are 
now making the only beginning you can ever make. You 
now start with clean, fresh reputations. I don’t know 
how long you will remain so, but you must remember that 
you are members of the finest house in Fernhurst. Last 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


30 

year we had the two finest athletes, Wincheston and 
Lovelace, who played cricket for Leicestershire, and is now 
captain of the House. We had also the two finest scholars, 
Scott and Pembroke, both of whom won scholarships. Now 
we can't all be county cricketers, we can’t all win scholar- 
ships, but we can all work to one end with an unfailing 
energy. You* will find prefects here who will beat you if 
you play the ass. Well, I don’t mind ragging much and it 
is no disgrace to be caned for that. But it is a disgrace to 
be beaten for slacking either at games or work. It shows 
that you are an unworthy member of the House. Now I 
want all of you to try. Some of you will perhaps never 
rise above playing on House games, or get higher than the 
Upper Fifth. But if you can manage to set an example 
of keenness you will have proved yourselves worthy of the 
School House, which is beyond doubt the House at Fern- 
hurst. That’s all I have got to say.” 

That scene was in many ways the most vivid in Gordon’s 
career. From that moment he felt that he was no longer 
an individual, but a member of a great community. And 
afterwards when old boys would run down Clarke, and say 
how he had stirred up faction and rebellion, Gordon kept 
silent; he knew that whatever mistakes the head of the 
House might have made, yet he had the welfare of the House 
at heart and loved it with a blind, unreasoning love that 
was completely misunderstood. 

It is inevitable that a new boy’s first few days should be 
largely taken up in making mistakes, and though it is easy 
to laugh about them afterwards, at the time they are very 
real miseries. At Fernhurst, things are not made easy for 
the new boy. Gordon found himself placed in the Upper 
Fourth, under Fleming, a benevolent despot who was a 
master of sarcasm and was so delighted at making a brilliant 
attack on some stammering idiot that he quite forgot to 
punish him. “Young man, young man,” he would say, 
“people who forget their books are a confounded nuisance, 
and I don’t want confounded nuisances with me.” Gordon 
got on with him very well on the whole, as he had a sense 


FINDING HIS FEET 


3i 

of humour and always laughed at his master's jokes. But 
he only did Latin and English in the Fourth room, for the 
whole school was split up into sets, regardless of forms, for 
sharing such less arduous labours as science, maths, French 
and Greek. So that Gordon found himself suddenly 
appointed to Mr. Williams' Greek set No. V. with no idea 
of where to go. After much wandering, he eventually found 
the Sixth Form room. He entered; some one outside had 
told him to go in there. A long row of giants in stick-up 
collars confronted him. The Chief sat on a chair reading 
a lecture on the Maccabees. All eyes seemed turned on him. 

“Please, sir," he quavered out in trembling tones, “is 
this Mr. Williams' Greek set, middle school No. V?" i 

There was a roar of laughter. Gordon fled. After 
about five more minutes' ineffectual searching he ran into 
a certain Robertson in the cloisters. Now Robertson played 
back for the Fifteen. 

“I say, are you one of the new boys for Williams' set?" 

“Yes." 

“Well, look here, he’s setting us a paper, and I don't 
know much about it, and I rather want to delay matters. 
So look here, hide yourself for a few minutes. I am just 
going to find Meredith and have a chat." 

For ten minutes Gordon wandered disconsolately about 
the courts. When at last Robertson returned with his 
protege the hour was well advanced, and there would be no 
need for Robertson to have to waste his preparation doing 
an imposition. 

On another occasion one of the elder members of his 
form told him to go to “Bogus" for French. Now 
“Bogus" was short for the Bogus officer, and was the, 
unkind appellation of one Rogers. Tall, ascetic and 
superior, with the air of a great philosopher, he had, like 
Richard Feverel’s uncle, Adrian Harley, “attained that 
felicitous point of wisdom from which one sees all mankind 
to be fools." He was one of the happy few who are really 
content; for in the corps as Officer Commanding he could 
indulge continuously in his favourite pastime of hearing 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


3 2 

his own voice, and as a clerk in orders the pulpit presented 
admirable opportunities for long talks that brooked no 
interruptions. In the common room his prolix anecdotes 
were not encouraged. But in the pulpit there was no gain- 
saying him. His dual personality embodied the spirit of 
“the Church Militant/' a situation the humour of which 
the School did not fail to grasp. But of all this Gordon, 
of course, knew nothing. After a long search for this 
eminent divine, in perfect innocence he went up to a master 
he saw crossing the courts. 

“Please, sir, can you tell me where Mr. Bogus' class-room 
is?” He did not understand till weeks afterwards why 
the master took such a long time to answer, and seemed 
so hard put to it not to laugh. 

The story provided amusement in the common room for 
many days. Rogers was not too popular. 

It was in this atmosphere of utter loneliness and inability 
to do anything right that Gordon’s first week passed. Of 
the other new boys none of them seemed to him very much 
in his line. There was Foster, good-looking and attractive, 
but plausible and insincere. There was Rudd, a scholar who 
had passed into the Fifth, spectacled, of sallow appearance, 
and with a strange way of walking. Collins was not so bad, 
but his mind ran on nothing but football and billiard 
championships. The rest were nonentities, the set who 
drift through their six years, making no mark, hurting no 
one, doing little good. Finally they pass out into the world 
to swell the rout of civilised barbarians whom it “hurts 
to think” and who write to the papers, talk a lot about 
nothing and then die and are forgotten. The Public School 
system turns out many of these. For it loves mediocrity, 
it likes to be accepted unquestioningly as was the Old 
Testament. But times change. The Old Testament and 
the Public School system are now both of them in the 
melting-pot of criticism. 

For the most part Gordon kept to himself. No one took 
any notice of him, for he did nothing worthy of notice. He 
had rather looked forward to his first game of football, for 


FINDING HIS FEET 


33 

he had been quite a decent half-back at his preparatory 
school. He might perhaps do something brilliant. But for 
his first two days he wasn’t allowed even to play a game. 
With the other new boys he shivered in the autumn wind 
while Meredith, who rather surprisingly seemed quite an 
ordinary sort of person, instructed them in how to pack 
down. They were then told to watch the Upper game and 
see how football should be played. It was here that Gordon 
first saw Buller, the games master. He was indeed a 
splendid person. He wore a double-breasted coat, that on 
anyone else would have looked ridiculous, and even so was 
strikingly original. He had the strong face of one who had 
fought every inch of his way. It was a great sight to see 
“the Bull,” as he was called, take a game; he rushed 
up and down the field cursing and swearing. His voice 
thundered over the ground. It was the first game after 
the summer holidays, and everyone felt rather flabby. 
At half-time the great man burst out: “I have played 
football for twenty-five years, I coached Oxford teams and 
Gloucestershire teams, led an English scrum, and for 
fifteen years I have taught footer here, but never saw I 
such a display ! Shirking, the whole lot of you ! Get your 
shoulders down and shove. Never saw anything like it. 
Awful !” The Bull said this to every team at least three 
times every season, but he was every bit as generous with his 
praise as with his blame when things went well, and he was 
a great man, a personality. Even a desultory Pick-Up 
woke into excitement when the shrill, piping voice of a 
full-back came in with, “ The Bull’s* coming.” There was 
only one man in Fernhurst who was not afraid of him, and 
that was Lovelace, who was indeed afraid of nothing, and 
who towered over his contemporaries by the splendour of 
his athletic achievements, and the strength of an all-master- 
ing personality. 

On the next day Gordon had to watch another Upper 
game. This time “the Bull” was more or less quiet. Love- 
lace was at the top of his form, and Meredith twice cut 
through brilliantly and scored between the posts. Then 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


34 

life seemed to Buller very good. After the game he rolled 
tip to his house perfectly satisfied, whistling to himself. 
It was not until the Saturday that Gordon actually played 
in a game. He was originally performing on the Pick-Up ; 
but after a few minutes he was fetched to fill a gap in a 
House game. He was shoved into the scrum, was perfectly 
useless, and spent his whole time trying to escape notice. 
Only once he got really near the ball. Just before half- 
time the ball was rolling slowly towards him, the opposing 
full-back had failed to reach touch. Gordon, steadying 
himself as at soccer, took a tremendous kick at the ball, 
which screwed off his foot, and landed in the hands of the 
outside three-quarter, who easily outpaced the defence and 
scored. 

“You bloody little fool,” said someone. “For God’s 
sake, no soccer tricks here.” 

Gordon did not attempt to repeat the performance. He 
was supremely wretched, and merely longed for the day to 
end. No one understood him, or even wanted to. His 
home became a very heaven to him during these days. 

But sooner or later pain grows into a custom. The 
agonies of Prometheus and Ixion must after a little while 
have ceased to cause anything more than boredom. As 
soon as the mind is accustomed to what is before it, there 
is an end of grief. It is the series of unexpected blows that 
hurts. And so, Gordon after his first week found that life 
was not so hard after all. He knew where his various 
class-rooms were; his time-table was complete; he had 
slipped into the routine, and found that there was a good 
deal of merriment for anyone with a sense of humour. 

Fleming was a constant source of amusement. One day 
Mansell, a member of the School House Fifteen, had for- 
gotten his book. The usual penalty for forgetting a book 
was a hundred lines. Mansell had been posted on the 
Lower ground. If he did well, he might be tried for the 
Second Fifteen. The book must be got at all costs. 

“Please, sir, may I go and get a handkerchief?” 

“Yes, young man, and hurry up about it.” 


FINDING HIS FEET 35 

After five minutes Mansell returns, blowing his nose 
vigorously in his silk handkerchief of many colours, for 
Mansell is by way of being a nut. The book is under his 
coat. He sits down. 

Fleming fixes him with a stony glare — a long pause. 

‘‘Mansell, take that book from under your coat.” 

Reluctantly the miscreant does so. The dream of a 
Second’s cap vanishes. 

“Conjurer !” 

The roar of laughter was sufficient to make Fleming 
forget all about impositions. But Mansell did not perform 
very well on the Lower ground, and Gordon overheard 
Lovelace remarking to Meredith that Mansell was really 
rather a come-down for a School House cap. 

But, whatever his football performances, he was a con- 
tinual source of laughter. He and Gordon were in the same 
Greek set and studied under Mr. Claremont, a dry humorist, 
who had adopted school-mastering for want of something 
better to do, had apparently regretted it afterwards, and 
developed into a cynic. 

Mansell was easily the most popular man and the worst 
scholar in the set, in which there were nineteen in all. 
Each week Claremont read out the order. Gordon was 
usually about half-way up. Mansell fluctuated; one week 
he “bagged” the translation Clarke was using for scholar- 
ship work. He was second that week. But Clarke dis- 
covered the theft. There was a fall. Many names were 
read in the weekly order, but Mansell’s was not of them. 
At last Claremont reached him. 

“Greek Prose, Mansell 19th; Greek Translation, Mansell 
19th ; Combined Order, Mansell 19th.” A roar of laughter. 
“Well, Mansell, I don’t think that a titter from your com- 
panions is a sufficient reward for a week’s bad work.” 

The immediate result of this was that Mansell, realising 
that without some assistance, printed or otherwise, his 
chances of a good report were small, got leave from Clarke 
to fetch Gordon from the day-room to his study in hall to 
prepare the work together. Gordon at once thought himself 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


3 ^ 

a tremendous blood. There were advantages, after all, in 
being moderately clever. 

About this time another incident helped to bring Gordon 
a little more before the public eye. There had been a match 
in the afternoon v. Milton A. Lovelace, as happens to all 
athletes at times, had an off day. He missed an easy drop, 
fumbled two passes, and when the School were leading by 
one point just before time, failed to collar his man, and 
Milton A won by two points. “The Bull” raged furiously. 
Lovelace took hall that night. He sat at the top of the 
table in the day-room and gazed about, seeking someone 
on whom to vent his wrath. There was a dead silence. 
Gordon was writing hard at a Latin prose. He looked up 
for a second while thinking of a word. 

“Caruthers, are you working?” Lovelace snapped out. 

“Yes.” 

“You liar, you were looking out of the window, weren’t 
you?” 

“Yes, but ” 

1 11 teach you to tell lies to me. Come and see me at 
nine o’clock.” 

Very miserably Gordon continued his work. After 
about a quarter of an hour: 

“Caruthers, will you take six, or a hundred lines ?” 

Gordon thought it was not the thing to take lines: 

“Six.” 

“Will you have it now or afterwards?” 

“Now.” 

“Hunter, go and get a cane from my study.” 

Trembling with fear, Gordon heard Hunter’s feet ring 
down the stone passage, saw him running across to the 
studies by the old wall. There was silence again ; then the 
sound of feet; Hunter returned. 

“Come out here, Caruthers.” 

It hurt tremendously; he went back wishing he had 
taken the hundred lines. But the others thought it amaz- 
ingly brave of him. Lovelace minor, handsome, debonair. 


FINDING HIS FEET 


37 

a swashbuckler in the teeth of authority, came up after- 
wards and said: 

'‘Damned plucky of you. My brother's a bit of an ass 
at times." 

It was not really plucky, it was merely the fear of doing 
the wrong thing. But the House thought that, after all, 
there might be something in at least one of those wretched 
new kids. One or two people looked at him almost with 
interest that night in hall. 

That was Gordon’s first step. Afterwards things were 
not so hard. Mansell began to think him rather a sport, 
as well as an indispensable aid to classical studies, and 
Mansell counted for something. Meredith smiled at him 
one day. ... A Public School was not such a bad hole 
after all. And his cup of happiness seemed almost running 
over when one afternoon after a game of rugger he over- 
heard Lovelace minor say to Hunter: 

“That kid Caruthers wasn’t half bad." 

For he saw that the sure way to popularity lay in success 
on the field; and because it was the weak as the strong 
point of his character that he longed with a wild longing for 
power and popularity, it was already his ambition to be 
some day captain of the House, and to lead his side to 
glorious victories. 


CHAPTER III 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 

O F course ‘the Bull’ may be a jolly fine fellow and all 
that, but he does exceed the limit at times.” 

Lovelace minor was speaking; it was the evening after 
the Dullridge Match. The school had been beaten by 
twenty-seven points to three, by a much faster and heavier 
side. Meredith had been ill and could not play. Lovelace 
major had sprained his ankle in the first half, and though he 
had gone on playing was very little use. The match had 
all along been a foregone conclusion. But “the Bull” had 
lost his temper entirely. 

Hunter, Mansell and Jeffries, a Colt, who ran a good 
chance of getting his House cap the next term, were dis- 
cussing the matter. Gordon, who had come in to do 
Thucydides, was sitting in the background, a little shy and 
very interested. 

“Is it true,” said Jeffries, “that your brother threatened 
to resign the captaincy if he did not keep quiet ?” 

“Yes. By Jove, my brother let him have it. That's 
what ‘the Bull’ wants; he wants a fellow who’s not afraid 
of him to stand up against him. Femhurst has been run 
by him long enough. He is a splendid fellow; and when 
he’s sane I almost love him. But he has become an absolute 
tyrant. Thank God, he can’t ride roughshod over my 
brother.” 

Mansell here broke in. Mansell was rather fond of 
summing up. 

“It’s like this. ‘The Bull’s' a gorgeous fellow, he loves 
Fernhurst, he wants to love everyone in it. But he does 
not understand our House. We are not going to sweat 
ourselves to win some rotten Gym Cup or House Fives; 

38 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


39 

we haven’t time for that. We are amateurs. We play the 
hardest footer and the keenest cricket of all the houses, 
and that’s where we stop. He wants us to train every 
minute, go for runs in the afternoon, do physical exercises 
before breakfast so as to become strong, clean-living Eng- 
lishmen, who love their bodies and have some respect for 
their mind.” (A roar of laughter. It was as though ‘'the 
Bull” were speaking.) “Well, I don’t care a damn myself 
for my body or mind. All I know is that the House is going 
to get the Two Cock somehow, and that for six weeks we’ll 
train like Hades, and then, when we’ve got the cup, we’ll 
have a blind. We aren’t pros who train the whole year 
round ; we’re amateurs !” 

And Mansell was perhaps not far wrong. 

“I say, you know,” says Hunter, who had a cheerful way 
of suddenly flying off at a tangent, “talking of ‘the Bull,’ 
have you heard of the row in his house?” 

Intense enthusiasm. Buller’s was supposed to be “above 
suspicion.” 

“Oh, well, old Bull came round the dormitories last night 
and heard Peters and Fischer and some other lads talking 
the most arrant filth. He gave them all six in pyjamas on 
the spot, and Fischer is not going to be allowed to be house 
captain next year. Rather a jest, you know. Old Bull 
thought because his house was always in wonderful training 
that the spirit of innocence ruled over the place.” 

“Well, he must be an ass then,” said Mansell. “Why, 
look at Richmore, and Parry; and even old Johnson has 
little respect for a bourgeois morality.” 

Mansell was rather pleased with the last phrase ; he was 
not quite certain what it meant. G. K. Chesterton used it 
somewhere, probably in his apology for George IV. It 
sounded rather nice. 

“Well, it’s obvious that a blood must be a bit of a rip; 
and Buller’s is merely an asylum for bloods !” 

This rather perplexed Gordon. He ventured a question 
rather timidly: “But is it impossible for a blood to be a 
decent fellow?” 


40 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“Decent fellow ?” cried Jeffries. “Who on earth has 
said they were anything else? Johnson’s a simply glorious 
man. Only a bit fast; and that doesn’t matter much.” 

In a farewell lecture, Gordon’s preparatory school master 
had given him to believe that it mattered a good deal, but 
he was doubtless old-fashioned. Times were changed; 
Gordon had ceased to be shocked at what he heard; he 
was learning what life was, and how strange and beautiful 
and ugly it was. 

As the winter term drew to a close, Gordon grew more 
and more sure of himself. He had passed by nearly all the 
other new boys. Foster, it is true, had got on well accord- 
ing to his lights, and was on more than friendly terms with 
Evans, the school slow bowler. But he was not much 
liked by his equals. Rudd was looked on quite rightly as 
an absolute buffoon; Collins got on fairly well, but was 
generally admitted to be a bit eccentric. Gordon was, 
without doubt, the pick of the crew. His position in form 
was a great help. Mansell’s friends thought him a cheerful, 
amusing and respectable-looking person, and were quite 
pleased to have him about the place. Next term he was 
going to have a study with Jeffries. The Chief thought he 
had got on rather too quick. But he was usually among 
the first three in his form, and there was nothing definite 
to find fault with, and, after all, his friends were excellent 
fellows. There was nothing against them. Jeffries was 
genially selfish, always ready for a rag, a keen footballer, 
and had, like most other Public School boys, adopted a 
convenient broad-mindedness with regard to cribbing and 
other matters. 

“If the master is such an arrant ass as to let you crib, it is 
his own lookout ; and, after all, we take the sporting chance.” 

Lovelace minor was rather a different sort of person. Very 
excitable, he despised and deceived most of the masters; 
among his friends he was unimpeachably loyal. He loved 
games, but never took them sufficiently seriously to please 
“the Bull.” He played for his own pleasure, not “the 
Bull’s.” Pie was a splendid companion. 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


4i 

Hunter was rather a nonentity; his chief attraction was 
that he usually had the last bit of scandal at his finger-tips ; 
he was safe to be consulted on any point of school politics. 
It was his boast that he had sufficient evidence to expel 
half the Fifteen and the whole Eleven. 

At this time Gordon found school life inexpressibly joy- 
ful. There were minor troubles, but they were few. The 
only thing that really worried him was Corps Parade. This 
infliction occurred once every week, and for two hours 
Gordon passed through hell. He was in a recruits’ section 
under a man from Rogers’ house, who was a typical product 
of his house. He was oily, yellow and unpleasant to look 
upon. He also loathed Gordon. There was a feud between 
the men from Rogers’ and the School House. 

Rogers was the captain in command of the corps. To 
Gordon he seemed exactly like what Cicero must have 
been, loud, contentious, smashing down pasteboard castles 
with a terrific din. He was amazingly arrogant and con- 
ceited. In the pulpit and on the parade ground he was in 
his element. The School House had for years been notorious 
for their slackness on parade. In drill and musketry com- 
petitions they had invariably come out bottom, and Rogers 
hated them for it. It was indeed a great sight to see the 
School House half company at work. Everyone was fed 
to death, and took no pains to hide the fact. Once Rogers 
had said to the House colour-sergeant: 

“Phillips, form up your men facing right.” 

Phillips looked round at them, thought for a second or 
two and then drawled: “Look here, you fellows, shove 
round there.” And the subsequent sarcastic comment was 
quite lost on him. He was a good forward, but not too 
clever. He was proof against epigram. 

It was truly a noble sight to see Lovelace minor come 
on parade. Every week exactly two seconds late, in the 
dead silence that followed the sergeant-major’s thundered 
“Parade!” he would dash through the school gate, puffing 
and blowing, his drum knocking against his equipment, 
his hat crooked, half his buttons undone. He would barge 


42 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


through two sections, rush to the School H* _ hali 
company, bang his rifle on the ground, and say to his 
companion in a stage whisper: “I wasn’t noticed, was I?” 

But these were only incidents. As a whole everything 
connected with the corps was “a hell upon earth.” Field 
days consisted of a long march, a sublime mix-up, a 
speech from Rogers, a bad tea, then a long march home. 
No one knew what was happening; no one cared. It was 
a sheer waste of time. Only Rogers really enjoyed himself. 

Then suddenly it occurred to Clarke that such a state of 
affairs was a disgrace to the House. He had just been made 
a colour-sergeant, and determined to wake things up. He 
made a long speech to the House, pointing out the necessity 
for National Service, the importance of militarism, and its 
effect on citizenship. He finished by a patriotic outburst, 
telling them that they were wearing the King’s uniform, and 
that it must be kept clean, and the brass badges polished. 
The House was mildly interested ; its attitude was summed 
up in Turner’s remark: 

“Well, the King’s uniform will have to go buttonless as 
far as I am concerned, I’m afraid. Damned if I’ll waste 
twopence to buy a rotten bone button.” 

On the next parade, however, Clarke inspected the 
company. Half the House had to call him the next morn- 
ing, dressed properly, at seven o’clock. That would mean 
getting up at six-thirty. General consternation. 

“It’s a crying scandal,” said Lovelace minor. “If I had 
not been reported for slacking at French I’d jolly well go 
and complain to the Chief. How can anyone play football 
without proper sleep?” 

Gordon laughed from the depths of his arm-chair. There 
were advantages in being a recruit, even if one was ordered 
about by a man in Rogers’ who didn’t wash. Hunter and 
Jeffries raged furiously; they swore that they would not 
turn up. “Who is Clarke, damn his eyes, to take on the 
privileges of a brigadier-general ? It’s a House tradition 
that no one tries at parade.” 

Overnight Hunter was very full of rebellion; but seven 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


43 

o’clock saw him in shining brass, meekly standing before 
Clarke, who examined them from his bed with an electric 
torch. But Jeffries cut ; he was ever “agin the govern- 
ment.” He got six. His tunic was clean next week. 
The House growled and cursed inwardly, but its appearance 
on parade was very different. Clarke was a man. 

There is nothing so self-satisfying as to watch trouble 
from a safe distance. Gordon was thoroughly happy. 
Mansell cursed heavily every Monday night before the 
Tuesday parade. Clarke became to the House what 
Cromwell was to Ireland; even the feeble Davenham 
thought it was a bit thick. But Gordon was a recruit, 
and such things did not worry him. Life was just then 
amazingly exciting. He was developing into quite a useful 
forward. Mansell said he was certain for a place in the 
House Thirds side. He was high up in form, and there 
was a good chance of his getting a prize, but what perhaps 
counted more than anything else was the fact that he was 
getting a position in the House. Prefects had ceased to 
ask him what his name was. He was no longer a nonentity ; 
he was looked on as a coming man. 

As the term wore on, the thought of exams, brought 
to Gordon only a feeling of excitement. There was little 
likelihood of disaster; there was the certainty of a good 
struggle for the first place between himself and one Wal- 
ford, a dull though industrious outhouse individual. But to 
some of his friends exams, seemed as the day of reckoning. 
Lovelace minor was frankly at his wits’ end. He had slacked 
most abominably the whole term. He had prepared none 
of his books, and his next-door neighbour had supplied him 
with all necessary information. Now the news was about 
that IV. B was going to sit with the Sixth Form for 
exams. Terror reigned. There could be no cribbing under 
the Chief’s nose. Jeffries was in the same plight; but he 
was a philosopher. “If I get bottled in every paper,” 
he said, “it will only mean about two hours’ work on each 
subject. But if I am going to know enough to avoid being 
bottled, it will mean a good eight hours’ work at each 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


44 

subject: six hours wasted on each. In these times of 
bustle it can’t be done. Caruthers, pass me that red- 
backed novel on the second shelf !” 

Lovelace, however, was perturbed, and set out to prepare 
himself for the ordeal. But his was a temperament that 
forbade application on any subject other than horse racing. 
Every night he paced up and down the study passages 
getting hints first from one person then another, and always 
staying for a talk. By the end of preparation the result 
was always the same — nothing done; and he and Jeffries 
both spent the last Saturday in exactly the same way. 

But with Mansell it was different. If he got a promotion 
his pater had promised him a motor bike. At first sight 
this seemed impossible. Hunter in fact laid a hundred to 
one against his chances. But for once Mansell really tried 
at something besides games. For two halls he worked 
solidly from seven till ten, preparing small slips of paper 
that contained all the notes he could find in Gordon’s note- 
book, and that could fit conveniently into the back of a 
watch. Everything was in his favour. Claremont was 
taking exams. The first paper was Old Testament history. 
Mansell looked at his watch repeatedly; but suddenly he 
came to an unexpected question. He endeavoured to extract 
an answer from the man on his right. 

Claremont spotted him. 

“Well, Mansell, if I ask you if you- are cribbing, I know 
you will deny it, and I don’t want you to tell me a lie ; but 
I must beg of you not to talk quite so loudly.” 

Any ordinary master would have torn up the boy’s 
paper. But Claremont was getting old. 

At any rate for the rest of the exams. Mansell relied 
entirely on his notes. The Greek translation paper, how- 
ever, was more than he could do. Promotion did not 
count on a set subject, but only on English and Latin; so 
Greek had gone by the board. After writing the most 
amazing nonsense for two hours, Mansell decided that it 
was wiser not to enter into competition at all with those 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


45i 

low tricksters who had prepared their work. He showed 
up no papers at all. 

Next day Claremont corrected the papers. 

“Well, Mansell, I can’t find your paper anywhere.” 

“I showed it up, sir.” 

“Well, I am sure I don’t know where it is. You had 
better go and find Mr. Douglas, and ask him if he knows 
anything about it.” 

Mr. Douglas was the mathematical master, to whom all 
marks were sent. He added them up, and made out the 
orders. 

After an unnecessarily long interval Mansell returned. 

“I am sorry, sir ; Mr. Douglas has not seen them.” 

“Well, I suppose it must be all my fault. I shall have 
to give you an average on your papers, which, strange to 
say, have been, for you, remarkably good.” 

Mansell was averaged sixth for the paper. A real good 
bluff gives more pleasure than all the honest exercises of 
one’s life put together. 

There was laughter in No. 16 Study that evening. A few 
weeks ago Gordon would have been horrified at such a 
thing; but now it seemed a splendid jest. He would not 
have cribbed himself. He preferred to beat a man with 
his own brains, though Mansell would have protested that 
it was a greater effort to pit one’s brains against a master 
long trained in spotting tricks than against some dull- 
headed scholar. The Public School system, at any rate, 
teaches its sons the art of framing very ingenious theories 
with which to defend their faults; a negative virtue, per- 
haps, but none the less an achievement. 

The last days of term were now drawing in. The House 
supper was only a few days off and the holidays very close. 
Everyone was glad on the whole to have finished the 
Christmas term, which is invariably the worst of the three. 
And this year it had not been improved by Clarke’s military 
activities and the feeling of unrest that overhung the doings 
of the Fifteen, because of Lovelace major’s never-ending 
broils with “the Bull.” Two strong men both wanted their 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


46 

own way. On the whole, honours were even, though, if 
anything, slightly in Lovelace’s favour, since he had filled 
up the scrum with a School House forward and a member 
of Benson’s, a small and rather insignificant House, instead 
of giving the colours to men in Buller’s. 

But next term there would be fewer rows. There would 
be house matches, and each house captain would rim 
things in his own house as he wished. The school captain 
did little except post up which grounds each house was 
to occupy. The School House always longed for the 
Easter term. It was their chance of showing the rest of 
the school what they were made of. As they were slightly 
bigger than any other house, they claimed the honour of 
playing the three best of the outhouses in the great Three 
Cock House Match for the Senior Challenge Cup. This 
year, with Lovelace and Meredith, a School House victory 
was looked on as almost certain. Besides this big event 
there were the Two Cock and Thirds House Match. In 
the “Thirds” the School House under sixteen house side 
played against the two best of the outhouses under sixteen 
sides, for the Thirds Challenge Cup. And in the Two Cock, 
the second House Fifteen — that is, the House Fifteen minus 
those with first and second Fifteen colours — played the two 
best of the outhouse second Fifteens for the Junior Chal- 
lenge Cup. The results of these last two matches were 
very much on the knees of the gods. The House stood a 
fair chance, but the general opinion was that Buller’s would 
win the Thirds; and Christy’s, a house that was full of 
average players who were too slack to get their seconds, 
would pull off the Two Cock. At any rate, there would be 
no lack of excitement. There was always far more keen- 
ness shown about house matches than school matches, a 
fact which worried Buller immensely. He thought every- 
thing should be secondary to the interests of Fernhurst. 

On the last Saturday of the term there was the House 
Supper. It was a noble affair. The bloods came down 
in immaculate evening dress; even the untidiest junior 
had oiled his hair and put on a clean collar. At the Sixth 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


47 

Form table sat the Chief, some guests, Lovelace, Clarke, and 
a certain Ferguson, who edited The Fernhnrst School 
Magazine , and was to propose the health of the old boys, 
of whom about twenty had come down, several having 
helped to defeat the school by twenty points to sixteen in 
the afternoon. Never had so much food been seen before. 
Turner had boasted that he always went into training a 
week before the event, so as to enjoy it more. But the 
real triumph was the hot punch. As soon as dessert had 
begun the old boys trooped out, and brought in a huge 
steaming bowl of punch, from which they filled all the 
glasses. Gordon did not like it much. It seemed very 
hot and strong. But everyone else seemed to. Jeffries 
got a little excited. 

Then speeches followed. The Chief proposed the fortune 
of the House, Clarke answered him. There was the usual 
applause and clapping. But the real event was Lovelace’s 
speech. It had been a year of great success. The Three 
Cock had been lost by only a very small margin. The Two 
Cock had been won in a walk-over, and the Thirds by two 
points. The Senior Cricket and the Sports Cup had also 
been won. It was very nearly a record year. Lovelace 
made a great speech. He was received with terrific ap- 
plause; he congratulated the House on its performance; 
he mentioned individual names; and each one was the 
signal for a roar of cheering; and then, at the end, he 
said: 

“And now I have a message to the House from the old 
boys. Let us have the Three Cock Cup back again on the 
School House sideboard. It is the place where it should 
be, and that’s the place where we are going to put it! 
Gentlemen, The Three Cock!” 

Amid a deafening noise the toast was drunk, and a voice 
from the back yelled out: “Three cheers for Lovelace!” 
His health, too, was drunk, and they sang For he’s a Jolly 
Good Fellow. 

After this all else seemed tame. Ferguson made a 
speech that was meant to be very funny, but rather missed 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


48 

fire. He had read Dorian Gray the whole of the evening 
before, underlining appropriate aphorisms. But to the 
average boy Oscar Wilde is (rather luckily perhaps) a 
little too advanced. The evening finished with Auld Lang 
Syne. Everyone stood on the table and roared himself 
hoarse. The score in damage was twenty plates broken 
beyond repair, sixteen punch glasses in fragments, fourteen 
cracked plates, two broken gas mantles. When the revellers 
had departed the hall looked rather gloomy, as probably 
Nero’s did when his guests fled after the murder of 
Britannicus. 

Next morning there was early service for communicants. 
But the School House was entirely pagan. Hardly a 
man went. On Sunday there was a great feed in Study 16. 
Somehow or other ten people got packed into as many 
square feet of room. Gordon was there; and Mansell, of 
course; Collins came to act as general clown; Fitzroy, a 
small friend of Jeffries, sat in a far corner looking rather 
uncomfortable. Spence, Carey and Tiddy made up the 
number; the last were quite the ordinary Public School 
type, their conversation ran entirely on games, scandal and 
the work they had not done. Lovelace was mildly bored. 

“It’s pretty fair rot, you know. Here have I been fair 
sweating away at the exams, every minute of my time, and 
Jeffries, who has not done a stroke, is above me.” 

Jeffries was bottom but one. 

“Oh, rotten luck,” said Mansell. “You should do like 
me. Old fool Claremont said I had done damned well!” 

“He hardly put it that way,” came from Gordon; “but 
I believe Mansell has managed more or less to deceive the 
examiners.” 

“Oh, I say, that’s a bit thick, you know,” said Mansell. 
“Oh, damn, who is that at the door?” 

There was a feeble knock. “Come in!” shouted at least 
six voices simultaneously. 

Davenham came in looking rather frightened. 

“I’m sorry. ... Is Caruthers in here?” 

“Yes, young fellow, he is.” 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


49 


"Oh, Caruthers, Meredith wants you!” 

"Damn him,” said Gordon. "What a nuisance these 
prefects are.” 

Very unwillingly he got up and strolled upstairs. 

He was away rather a long time. After twenty minutes' 
absence he returned rather moodily. 

"Hullo, at last; you’ve been the hell of a long time,” 
said Hunter. "What did he want?” 

"Oh, nothing; only something about my boxing sub- 
scription.” 

"Well, he took long enough about it, I must say. Was 
that all?” 

"Of course. Cake, please, Fitzroy!” 

The subject was dropped. 

But just before chapel Jeffries ran into Gordon in the 
cloister. 

"Look here, Caruthers, what did Meredith really want 
you for? I swear I won’t tell anyone.” 

"Oh, well, I don’t mind you knowing. ... You know 
what Meredith is, well — I mean — oh, you know, the usual 
stuff. He wanted me to meet him out for a walk to- 
morrow. I told him in polite language to go to the 
‘devil.’ ” 

"Good Lord, did you really? But why? If Meredith 
gets fed up with you he could give you the hell of a time.” 

"Oh, I know he could, but he wouldn’t over a thing 
like that. Damn it all, the man is a gentleman.” 

"Of course he is, but all the same he is a blood, and it 
pays to keep on good terms with them.” 

"Oh, I don’t know; it’s risky — and well, I think the 
whole idea is damned silly nonsense.” 

Jeffries looked at him rather curiously. 

"Yes,” he said, "I suppose that is how the small boy 
always looks at it.” 

It was only for an hour or so, however, that Gordon let 
this affair worry him. The holidays were only forty-eight 
hours off and he was longing to hear the results of the 
exams., and to know whether he had a prize. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


50 

Prize-giving was always held at five o’clock on the last 
Monday. And the afternoon dragged by very slowly. 
Mansell assumed a cheerful indifference. He thought his 
motor bike fairly certain. Rumour had it there were going 
to be at least twelve promotions into the Lower Fifth. 
Jeffries and Lovelace had also nothing to worry about; 
there was little doubt as to their positions. Hunter special- 
ised in chemistry, and had done no examination papers. 
But for Gordon the suspense was intolerable. He could 
find nothing to do ; he climbed up the Abbey tower, and 
wrote his name on the big hand of the clock; he roped up 
his playbox, tipped the school porter; and still there was 
an hour and a half to put in. Disconsolately he wandered 
down town. He strolled into Gisson’s, the school book- 
seller’s: it contained nothing but the Home University 
Library series and numerous Everymans. It was just like 
his first day over again. But at last five o’clock came, and 
he sat with his four friends at the back of the big school- 
room. He grew more and more tired of hearing the lists 
of the Second and Third Forms read out. What interest 
did he take in the doings of Pappenheim and Guttridge 
tertius? IV. A was reached at length. The list was read 
from the bottom. 

Not placed — Hunter. 

Slowly the names were read out ; the single figures were 
now reached: 

Mansell — term’s work, eighteen. Exams., one. Com- 
bined order, four. 

This difference of position caused a titter to run round 
among those of the School House who knew the cause of it. 
The third name and then the second was reached: 

Caruthers — Term’s work, one. Exams., three. Com- 
bined order, one. 

Term’s Prize — Caruthers. Exams. — Mansell. 

The latter’s performance was the signal for an uproarious 
outburst of applause, in which laughter played a large part. 
There was still more merriment when it was discovered 
that he had got as a prize Sartor Resartus. As he crudely 


THE NEW PHILOSOPHY 


5i 

put it : “What the bloody hell does it mean ?" Gordon got 
The Indian Mutiny , by Malleson. Both books now repose, 
as do most prizes, in the owners' book-cases, unread. 

“Congrats, Mansell, old fellow," yelled Lovelace minor, 
as the school poured out at the end of the prize-giving. 
“Glorious! What a School House triumph." 

“Yes, you know," said Mansell. “But it doesn’t seem 
quite fair, and I am damned if I want this book. It looks 
the most utter rot. I say, shall I give it to that little kid 
in Buller’s, I forget his name, who was second? He looks 
a bit upset. Shall I, I say?" 

“Don’t be a silly fool, Mansell," said Lovelace major, who 
happened to overhear the conversation. “You’ve just got 
the only prize you’re ever likely to get for work; stick on 
to it." 

The rest of the day was pure, unalloyed joy to Gordon. 
He rushed off after tea to wire the news home; then he 
sat in the gallery and listened to the concert. He had 
expected to enjoy it rather; but the seats were uncom- 
fortable, the music too classical, and he soon stopped paying 
any attention to the choir, and began a long argument with 
Collins as to the composition of the Two Cock scrum. 

The next morning as the train steamed out of Fernhurst, 
and he lay back in the carriage smoking a cigarette, out- 
wardly with the air of a connoisseur, inwardly with the 
timid nervousness of a novice, he reflected that, in spite of 
the Rev. Rogers, school was a pretty decent sort of place. 


CHAPTER IV 


NEW FACES 

I SAY, it is true; Lovelace major has left.” 

“Good Lord, no; is it?” 

“He’s not on the House list?” 

“I heard he’d passed into the army at last.” 

“I wonder who he was sitting next.” 

“And we shall have that silly ass Armour captain of 
the House.” 

“Ye gods !” 

A small crowd had gathered in front of the studies on 
the first night of the Easter term. Consternation reigned. 
The almost impossible had happened. Lovelace major had 
passed into Sandhurst at his fifth attempt, and Armour 
would take his place as house captain. It was a disaster. 
Armour was doubtless a most worthy fellow, a thoroughly 
honest, hard-working forward. But he had no personality. 
When he passed by, fags did not suddenly stop talking, as 
they did when Clarke or Meredith rolled past them. The 
term before, he had not even been a house prefect. The 
Three Cock, which had once seemed such a certainty, now 
became a forlorn hope. 

“It’s rotten,” said Lovelace minor that night in the dormi- 
tojry. “My brother didn’t think he had the very ghost of a 
chance of passing. He’d mucked it up four times running, 
only the silly ass had done both the unseens with ‘the 
Bull’ the week before, and he was too damned slack to 
alter them, and write them down wrong. He always was 
an ass, my brother.” 

Everyone was sorry. Even “the Bull” regarded him 
with a sort of indulgent sentimentality. He never saw 

52 


NEW FACES 


53 

very much good in a School House captain as long as he 
was there; but as soon as he left, all his faults were for- 
gotten, and virtues that he had never possessed were flung 
at him in profusion. The result was that “the Bull” 
said to the School House captain of each generation: “I 
have had more trouble with you than any Fernhurst boy 
I have ever met. You can’t see beyond the length of 
your own dining-hall. See big. See the importance of 
Fernhurst, and the insignificance of yourself.” 

But no one was more sorry than Armour. He did not 
want responsibility; he had not sought for it. He wished 
to have fought in the School House battles as a private, 
not as an officer. He loved the House, and longed for its 
success, and trembled to think that he might ruin its chances 
by a weak and vacillating captaincy. Moreover, he felt 
that he had no one to back him up. Meredith, Robey 
and Simonds, the other members of the First Fifteen in the 
House, were all grousing and wondering how large a score 
the outhouses would run up in the Three Cock. No one 
placed any confidence in his abilities. He was entirely 
alone. 

The next day was pouring wet; the ground was under 
water. Most house captains would have sent their houses 
for a run. But Armour wanted to make his start as early 
as possible. He couldn’t bear to delay. That afternoon 
the probable Thirds side played against the rest of the 
House, with the exception of the Second colours. Armour 
had never felt so nervous before; it was actually the first 
time he had refereed on a game. Jeffries was captain of 
the Thirds, and kicked off. It was, of course, a scrappy 
game. On such a day good football was impossible. The 
outsides hardly touched the ball once. But the forwards, 
covered in mud from head to foot, had their full share of 
work. Jeffries was ubiquitous; he led the “grovel” (as 
the scrum was called at Fernhurst), and kept it together. 
Gordon had very little chance of distinguishing himself; 
but he did one or two dribbles, and managed to collar 
Mansell the only time he looked like getting away. Love- 


54 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


lace minor, who played fly-half, had nothing to do except 
stop forward rushes, was kicked all over his body, got very 
cold and never had a chance once. He was utterly miserable 
the whole hour. All this was in favour of Armour. He 
knew nothing about three-quarter work, but he had played 
forward ever since he had gone to the Fernhurst preparatory 
at ten years of age, and could always spot the worker and 
the slacker, which Lovelace major never could. On the 
whole, taking a house game was not so terrifying after all ; 
by half-time he had forgotten his nervousness in his excite- 
ment at watching how his side was going to shape. 

“You know, I don’t think Armour so rotten as people 
said he would be,” said Gordon, as they came up after the 
game. “I thought he was all right.” 

“Oh yes, he’s not so bad; but he does not seem much 
when you shove him next to Lovelace major.” 

“Well, you know,” said Jeffries, “he does know some- 
thing about forward play, which I am damned if Lovelace 
did.” 

“Perhaps so ; but all the same Lovelace was the man to 
win matches.” Mansell was an outside, and loved dash and 
brilliance, but the forwards were not sorry to have someone 
in command who understood them. Armour had begun 
well. 

There are still people who will maintain that the ideal 
schoolboy in school hours thinks only about Vergil and 
Sophocles, and in the field concentrates entirely on drop 
kicks and yorkers. But that boy does not exist; and in 
the Easter term it is impossible to think of anything but 
house matches. Those were in the power of some 
form martinet had a terrible time this term. But Gordon 
and Mansell found themselves safely at rest in Claremont’s 
form and Greek set, and made up their minds just to stay 
there and do only enough work to avoid being bottled. 

For the Lower Fifth was certainly the refuge of many 
weather-beaten mariners. Pat Johnstone had laboriously 
worked up from the bottom form, led on only by the hope 


NEW FACES 


55 

that one day he would reach V. B, and there repose at the 
back of the room, living his last terms in peace. Ruddock 
had once set out with high hopes of reaching the Sixth; 
his first term he had won a Divinity prize in the Shell. 
But under Claremont he had discovered the truth, learnt 
long ago in the land of Lotus Eaters, “that slumber is 
more sweet than toil ! ,y The back benches of that room 
were strewn with shattered hopes. Small intelligent 
scholars came up and passed by on their way to Balliol 
Scholarships; but the faces at the back of the room re- 
mained terribly somnolent and happy. A certain Banbury 
had been there for three years and had earned the nickname 
of “old Father Time,” and Mansell, too, swore he would 
enrol himself with the Lost Legion, while even Gordon said 
that nothing would shift him from there for at least a year. 

Claremont had many strange ideas, the most striking of 
which was the belief that boys felt a passionate love for 
poetry. The average boy has probably read all the poetry 
he will ever read terms before he ever reaches the Fifth 
Form. By the time he is in Shell he has learnt to appreciate 
Kipling, the more choice bits of Don Juan and a few plain- 
spoken passages in Shakespeare. If English Literature 
were taught differently, if he were led by stages from Ma- 
caulay to Scott, from Byron to Rossetti, he might perhaps 
appreciate the splendid heritage of song, but as it is, swung 
straight from If to the Ode to the Nightingale he finds 
the “shy beauty” of Keats most unutterable nonsense. 
Claremont, however, thought otherwise, and ran his 
form accordingly. In repetition this was especially notice- 
able. Kennedy, a small boy with glasses, who was always 
word-perfect, would nervously mumble through Henry 
V.’s speech (they always learnt Shakespeare) in an 
accurate but totally uninspired way. Mansell would stand 
at the back of the form and blunder out blank verse, 
much of which was his own, and little of which was Shake- 
speare, but which certainly sounded most impressive. 

“Well, Kennedy,” Claremont would say, “you certainly 
know your words very well, but I can’t bear the way you 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


56 

say them. Five out of twenty. Mansell, you evidently 
have made little attempt to learn your repetition at all, 
but I love your fervour. One so rarely finds anyone really 
affected by the passion of poetry. Fifteen out of twenty.” 

During his two years in the Lower Fifth Mansell never 
once spent more than five minutes learning his “rep,” 
yet on no occasion did he get less than twelve out of twenty. 
A bare outline was required, a loud voice supplied the rest. 

In this form it was that Gordon first began to crib. 
He did not do it to get marks. He merely wished to avoid 
being “bottled.” Some headmasters, and the writers to 
The Boy's Own Paper, draw lurid pictures of the bully who 
by cribbing steals the prize from the poor innocent who 
looks up every word in a big Liddell and Scott; but such 
people don’t exist. No one ever cribbed in order to get a 
prize: they crib from mere slackness. Mansell’s exam, 
prize in IV. A is about the only instance of a prize won 
by cribbing. Besides, cribbing is an art. 

Ruddock, for instance, when he used to go on to translate, 
was accustomed to take up his Vergil in one hand and his 
Bohn in the other. 

“What is that other book, Ruddock?” Claremont asked 
once. 

“Some notes, sir,” was the perfectly truthful answer. 

Ruddock was, moreover, an altruist; he always worked 
for the good of his fellow-men. One day, when Mansell 
was bungling most abominably with his Euripides, he 
flung his Bohn along the desk, Mansell picked it up, propped 
it in front of him and read it off. Claremont never noticed. 
This was the start of a great system of combination. Every- 
one at the beginning of the term paid twopence to the 
general account with which Ruddock bought some Short 
Steps to Accurate Translations. As each person went on to 
translate, the book was passed to him and he read straight 
out of it. The translating was, in consequence, always of 
a remarkably high standard. Claremont never understood 
why examinations always proved the signal for a general 
collapse. History, however, was a subject that had long 


NEW FACES 


57 

been a worry to the form. Dates are irrevocable facts and 
cannot be altered, they must be learnt. At one time, when 
Claremont said, “Shut your book. I will ask a few ques- 
tions, ” everyone shut their Latin grammars loudly and 
kept their history books open; but this was rather too 
obvious a ruse; Claremont began to spot it. Something 
had to be done. It would be an insult to expect any member 
of the form to prepare a lesson. It was Gordon who 
finally devised a plan. 

“Please, sir/’ he said one day, “don’t you think we 
should find history much more interesting if we could 
bring in maps ?” 

“Well, perhaps it would,” said Claremont sleepily. “I 
am sure the form is very much indebted to you for your 
kind thought. Anyone who wants to, may bring in a 
map.” 

Next day everyone had found a huge atlas which he 
propped up on the desk; and which completely hid every- 
thing except the student’s actual head. There was now 
no fear of an open book being spotted, it was so very simple 
to shut it when Claremont began to walk about, and besides 
... it made the lesson so much more interesting. 

And so Gordon and Mansell were able to discuss football 
the whole of evening hall, never do a stroke of work, and 
yet get quite a respectable half-term report. 

The interest in the Thirds was now becoming intense. 
As was expected, Buller’s easily beat all the outhouses, with 
Claremont’s house as runners-up. Claremont’s house had 
once been the great athletic house, but when a house 
master takes but little interest in a house’s performances, 
that house is apt to get stale, and soon Claremont’s became 
a name for mediocrity. As a house it was like V. B, a 
happy land where no one worried about anything, and it was 
quite safe to smoke in the studies on a Sunday afternoon. 
A side made up of two houses that had never played together 
before was bound to lack the combination of a side that 
had played together for several weeks. But the School 
House was always playing against superior weight and 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


(58 

strength, and more than once had found itself unable to 
sustain their efforts, and after leading up to half-time went 
clean to pieces in the last ten minutes. It is pretty hard 
to hold a “grovel” several stones heavier for over an hour, 
and this year even Armour was a little doubtful about the 
lightness of his side. To Gordon and Jeffries, of course, 
defeat seemed impossible. Last year Jeffries had played 
in a winning side and Gordon had yet to see the House lose 
a match. But Mansell smiled sadly; he had played in a 
good many losing sides. Gordon dreamed football night 
and day. He saw himself securing wonderful last-minute 
tries, and bringing off amazing collars when all seemed 
lost. But all his hopes were doomed to disappointment. 
Two days before the game he slipped coming downstairs, 
fell with his wrist under him, and with his arm in splints 
and sling had to watch from the touch-line an outhouse 
victory of ten points to nothing. The usual thing happened 
— the House was just not strong enough. Jeffries played 
a great game, and fought an uphill fight splendidly; Love- 
lace only missed a drop goal by inches; Fletcher, an un- 
disciplined forward, did great damage till warned by the 
referee. But weight told, and during the whole of the last 
half the House were penned in their twenty-five, while the 
school got over twice. Very miserably the House sat down 
to tea that evening. It added insult to injury when an 
impertinent fag from Buller’s walked in in the middle and 
demanded the cup. Armour managed to keep his temper, 
but that fag did not forget for weeks the booting Gordon 
gave him the next day. Still it was a poor revenge for a 
lost cup. 

Whatever little chance there had ever been of Gordon 
getting a place in the Two Cock was, of course, quite 
destroyed by his accident. The doctor said he ought not 
to play again for at least three weeks. And so it was that, 
as far as football was concerned, Gordon found himself 
rather out of it. All his friends were in the thick of every- 
thing. Mansell was captain of the Two Cock, Jeffries was 
leading the scrum, Hunter was being tried as scrum half. 


NEW FACES 


59 


and Lovelace was in training as a reserve. He alone was 
doing nothing. For a few days the afternoons seemed un- 
bearably long. But Gordon had a remarkable gift for 
adapting himself to circumstances. And he had very little 
difficulty in striking up new acquaintances. So far, he 
had had very little to do with those outside his actual set ; 
with the majority of the House he was hardly on speaking 
terms, and of Archie Fletcher he knew little except the 
name. 

Archie Fletcher was a great person, “great” in fact was 
the only adjective that really fitted him. He had only 
two real objects in life, one was to get his House cap, the 
other was to enjoy himself. And his love of pleasure 
usually took the form of ragging masters. Ragging with 
him did not consist in mere spasmodic episodes of bravado 
which usually ended in a beating. He had reduced it to 
a science. It was to him the supreme art. At present he 
was suffering from a kick on the knee which he had received 
in the Thirds, and he and Gordon found themselves con- 
stantly thrown together. 

Archie (no one ever called him anything else) was a 
splendid companion. He had an enormous repertoire of 
anecdotes which he was never tired of telling, and every 
one finished in exactly the same way : “Believe me, 
Caruthers, some rag.” Oh, a great man, forsooth, was 
Archie! He had cynically examined every master with 
whom he had anything to do, picked him to pieces, found 
out his faults, and then played on his weaknesses. Some- 
times, however, he went a little too far. On one occasion 
he was doing chemistry with a certain Jenks, a very fiery 
little man, who really believed in the educational value of 
“stinks.” So did Archie; it gave him scope to exercise 
his genius for playing the fool. But this day he over- 
stepped the bounds. In the distance he saw Blake, his 
pet aversion, carefully working out an experiment. A piece 
of glass tubing was at hand; Jenks was not looking; Archie 
fixed the tube to the waterspout, turned the tap; a cas- 


6o 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


cade of H 2 0 rose in the air and fell on Blake’s apparatus'? 
there was a crash of falling glass. Jenks spun round. 

“Oh, is that you, Fletcher, you stupid fellow? Come 
over here. I shall have to beat you. Now then, where’s 
my cane gone ! Oh, then I shall have to use some rubber 
tubing — stoop down, stoop down !” 

Laboriously Archie bent down; Jenks bent a piece of 
india-rubber tubing double — its length was hardly a foot — 
and gave Archie a feeble blow. It could not possibly have 
hurt him. But the victim leapt in the air, clutching the 
seat of his trousers. 

“Oh!” he screamed. “Oh, sir, oh, sir! You have hurt 
me, sir. You are so strong, sir.” 

“Oh, then you are coward, too, are you?” said the 
delighted Jenks. “Stoop down again ; stoop down !” 

The form rocked with laughter. 

Archie received four strokes in all, and after each he 
went through the same performance. Jenks thought him- 
self a second Hercules ; he repeated the story in the common 
room. Archie repeated it also in the studies : “Believe me, 
you fellows, some rag!” 

A great man, and after Gordon’s own heart ! Ever since 
he had been free from the grip of the preparatory school 
he had learnt to loathe all masters in the abstract. They 
were all right in themselves; but as a whole they were to 
him essentially vile — inflictions that were none the less 
distasteful because they were necessary. If they had been 
unnecessary, there would have been a real cause for com- 
plaint. It is great fun being a martyr. But the theory 
of whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth gives little pleasure 
when one is being most deservedly birched. The authority 
of the school master was a nuisance, it was something to 
have fought it even in a small way. The subsequent report 
matters little. Sat est Pugnasse. 

On a bleak, rainy afternoon Gordon and Fletcher watched 
the overwhelming defeat of theYlouse in the Two Cock. 
The score was over thirty points ; Mansell played only very 
moderately; Jeffries was quite off his game. A gloom 


NEW FACES 


61 


settled down over the House, everyone became peevish 
and discontented. It was said that the great days of House 
footer were over. To lose both the Thirds and the Two 
Cock was a disgrace. No one expected anything but a 
rout in the Three Cock. There were bets in the day-room 
as to whether the score would be under fifty. Interest 
centred entirely on who would get their House caps. 
With Lovelace away, the three-quarter line would be in- 
nocuous : the forwards always had been weak. The House 
were bad losers, they had grown accustomed to victories. 


CHAPTER V 


EMERGING 

J EFFRIES was pretty hot stuff to-day, wasn’t he?” 

“Good Lord ! yes. If he plays half as well as that in 
the Three Cock he’ll get his House cap.” 

It was just after tea. Mansell was lying back in an easy- 
chair with his feet on the table; he was dead tired after a 
strenuous game. Gordon was sitting on the table. Hunter 
reclined in the window seat. 

“Where is he, by the way?” said Gordon. “I didn’t see 
him in to tea.” 

“Oh, I believe someone asked him out. Isn’t he rather 
a pal of the Jacobs in Cheap Street?” 

“I heard that there was a bit of a row on,” said Hunter. 
“I couldn’t quite make out what about. . . . Oh, by 
Jove, that’s him.” 

Jeffries’ voice was heard down the passage: “Man- 
sell.” 

A voice answered him: “Here; No. 34.” 

Jeffries was heard running upstairs; he entered looking 
very dejected. 

“Hullo ! Cheer up !” shouted Mansell. “I shouldn’t 
have thought you could have run like that after this after- 
noon’s game. Where’ve you been?” 

“I say . . . I’m in the deuce of a row.” 

There was a shriek of laughter. Jeffries was always in a 
row; and he always exaggerated its importance. 

“Don’t laugh. It’s no damned joke. I’ve got bunked.” 
Silence suddenly fell on the group. 

“But . . . what the hell have you been doing?” 

“Oh, Chief’s found out all about me and Fitzroy, and 
I’ve got to go !” 


62 


EMERGING 


63 

“But I never thought there was really anything in that,” 
said Gordon. “I thought ” 

“Oh, well, there was. I know I’m an awful swine and all 

that Oh, it’s pretty damnable ; and the Three Cock, too ! 

I believe I should have got my House cap! ... I wasn’t 
so dusty to-day — and I heard Armour say, as he came off 

the field Damn, what the bloody hell does it matter 

what Armour said? It’s over now. I just got across for 
a minute to see you men. ... I said I wanted a book. . . . 
Lord, I can’t believe it. . . .” 

When he stopped speaking there was again a dead 
silence. None of the three had been brought face to face 
with such a tragedy before. Never, Gordon thought, had 
the Greek idea of Nemesis seemed so strong. 

Hunter broke the silence. 

“What are you going to do now?” 

“I don’t know. I shall go home, and then, I suppose, 
I shall have to go to France or Germany, or perhaps some 
crammer. I don’t know or care . . . it’s bound to be 
pretty rotten. . . .” 

He half smiled. 

“My God, and it’s damned unfair,” Mansell said suddenly. 
“There are jolly few of us here any better than you, and 
look at the bloods, every one of them as fast as the devil, 

and you have to go just because Oh, it’s damned 

unfair.” 

Then Jeffries’ wild anger, the anger that had made him 
so brilliant an athlete, burst out: “Unfair? Yes, that’s 
the right word; it is unfair. Who made me what I am 
but Fernhurst? Two years ago I came here as innocent 
as Caruthers there; never knew anything. Fernhurst 
taught me everything; Fernhurst made me worship games, 
and think that they alone mattered, and everything else 
could go to the deuce. I heard men say about bloods 
whose lives were an open scandal, ‘Oh, it’s all right, they 
can play football.’ I thought it was all right too. Fern- 
hurst made me think it was. And now Fernhurst, that has 
made me what I am, turns round and says, ‘You are not 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


6 4 

fit to be a member of this great school !’ and I have to go. 
Oh, it's fair, isn’t it?” 

He dropped exhausted into a chair. After a pause he 
went on: 

“Oh, well, it’s no use grousing. I suppose if one hits 
length balls on the middle stump over square leg’s head 
one must run the risk of being bowled ; and I didn’t believe 
in sticking in and doing nothing. "Get on or get out/ 
and, well, I’ve got out.” He laughed rather hysterically. 

Again silence. 

Slowly Jeffries got up. 

“Well, good-bye, you men.” He shook hands. As he 
opened the door he paused for a second, laughed to him- 
self : “Oh, it’s funny, bloody funny,” he murmured. “Not fit 
for Fernhurst. . . . Bloody funny/' He laughed again, 
bitterly. The door closed slowly. 

Jeffries’ footsteps could be heard on the stairs. They 
grew fainter; the door leading to the Chief’s side of the 
House slammed. Down the study passage a gramophone 
struck up Florrie was a Flapper. 

In Study 34 there was an awful stillness. 

That evening on the way down to supper Gordon over- 
heard Armour say to Meredith: 

“What a fool that man Jeffries is, getting bunked, and 
mucking up the grovel. Damned ass, the man is.” 

Meredith agreed. 

Gordon didn’t care very much just now about the result 
of a House match. He had lost a friend. Armour had 
lost a cog in a machine. 

As was expected, the Three Cock proved a terribly one- 
sided game. The House played pluckily, and for the first 
half kept the score down to eight points; but during the 
last twenty minutes it was quite impossible to keep out 
the strong outhouse combination. The side became de- 
moralised, and went absolutely to pieces. Armour did not 
give a single House cap. 

After the Three Cock there was a period of four weeks 


EMERGING 


65 

during which the best athletes trained for the sports, while 
the rest of the school played hockey. It was generally 
considered a sort of holiday after the stress of house 
matches. Usually it served its purpose well, but for the 
welfare of the House this year it was utterly disastrous. The 
whole house was in a highly strung, discontented state; it 
had nothing to work for; it had only failures to look back 
upon. The result was a general opposition to authority. For 
a week or so there was a continuous row going on in the 
studies. Window-frames were broken; chairs were 
smashed; nearly every day one or other member of the 
House was hauled before the Chief, for trouble of some 
sort. But things did not reach a real head till one night in 
hall, just before Palm Sunday. There was a lecture for the 
Sixth Form; Armour was taking hall; and the only prefect 
in the studies was Sandham, who had a headache and had 
got leave off the lecture. It did not take long for the good 
news to spread round the studies that only “the Cockroach” 
was about. 

The first sign of trouble was a continual sound of open- 
ing doors. Archie was rushing round, stirring up strife; 
then there came a sound of many voices from the entrance 
of the studies, where were the fire hose and the gas meter. 
Suddenly the gas was turned out throughout the whole 
building, and pandemonium broke out. 

It would be impossible to describe the tumult made by 
a whole house that was inspired by only one idea: the 
desire to make a noise. The voice of Sandham rose in a 
high-pitched wail over and again above the uproar; but 
it was pitch dark, he could see none of the offenders. Then 
all at once there was peace again, the lights went up, and 
everyone was quietly working in his study. It had been 
admirably worked out. Archie was “some” organiser. 

For the time being the matter ended; but in a day or 
two rumours of the rebellion had reached Clarke. Strong 
steps had to be taken; and Clarke was not the man to 
shirk his duty. 


66 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

That evening after prayers he got up and addressed the 
House. 

“I have been told that two nights ago, when I was absent, 
there was a most unseemly uproar in the studies. I am 
not going into details ; you all know quite well what I mean. 
I want anyone who assisted in the disturbance to stand 
up.” 

There was not a move. The idea that the Public School 
boy's code of honour forces him to own up at once is 
entirely erroneous. Boys only own up when they are 
bound to be found out; they are not quixotic. 

“Well, then, as no one has spoken, I shall have to take 
forcible measures. Everyone above IV. A (for the Lower 
School did their preparation in the day-room) will do me a 
hundred lines every day till the end of the term. Thank 
you.” 

That night there was loud cursing. Clarke had hardly 
a supporter, the other prefects, with the exception of 
Ferguson, who did not count for much in the way of 
things, agreed with Meredith, who said: 

“If the Cockroach can’t keep order, how can Clarke 
expect there should be absolute quiet? It’s the Chief’s 
fault for making such prefects. Damned silly, I call it.” 

The term did not end without a further row. There had 
been from time immemorial a system by which corps clothes 
were common property. Everyone flung them in the 
middle of the room on Tuesday after parade; the matron 
sorted them out after a fashion; but most people on the 
next Tuesday afternoon found themselves with two tunics 
and no trousers, or two hats and only one puttee. But 
no one cared. The person who had two tunics flung one 
in the middle of the floor, and then went in search of some 
spare trousers. Everyone was clothed somehow in the 
end. There were always enough clothes to go round. There 
were bound to be at least ten people who had got leave off. 
It was a convenient socialism. 

But one day FitzMorris turned up on parade in a pair 
of footer shorts, a straw hat, and a First Eleven blazer. 


EMERGING 


67 

He was a bit of a nut, and finding his clothes gone, went 
on strangely garbed, merely out of curiosity to see what 
would happen. A good deal did happen. 

As soon as the corps was dismissed there was a clothes 
inspection. And the garments of FitzMorris were found 
distributed on various bodies. Clarke again addressed the 
House. Anyone in future discovered wearing anyone else’s 
clothes would be severely dealt with. But the House was 
not to be outdone. Every single name was erased from 
every single piece of clothing: identification waS impossible. 
FitzMorris turned up at the next parade with one puttee 
missing, and a tunic that could not meet across his chest. 
There was another inspection, but this time it revealed 
nothing. Everyone swore that he was wearing his own 
clothes; there was nothing to prove that he was not. 
For the time Clarke was discomfited. 

FitzMorris set out on his Easter holidays contented with 
himself and the world, in the firm belief that he had 
thoroughly squashed that blighter Clarke. The head of 
the House returned to his lonely home on the moors, very 
thoughtful — the next term would be his last. 

On the first Sunday of the summer term the Chief 
preached a sermon the effect of which Gordon never forgot. 
He was speaking on the subject of memory and remorse. 
“It may be in a few months; ” he said, “it may be not for 
three or four years; but at any rate before very long, 
you will each one of you have to stand on the threshold of 
life, and looking back you will have to decide whether you 
have made the best of your Fernhurst days. For a few 
moments I ask you to imagine that it is your last day at 
school. How will it feel if you have to look back and think 
only of shattered hopes, of bright unfulfilled promises? 
Your last day is bound to be one of infinite pathos. But 
to the pathos of human sorrow there is no need to add the 
pathos of failure. Oh, I know you are many of you saying 
to yourselves: 'There is heaps of time. We’ll enjoy our- 
selves while we have the chance. It is not for so very 
long!’ No, you are right there: it is not for so very 


63 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


long"; it is only a few hours before you will have to weigh 
in the balance the good and the bad you have done during 
your Femhurst days. For some of you it will be in a few 
weeks; but for the youngest of you it cannot be more 
than a very few years. Let me beg each of you . . .” The 
sermon followed on traditional lines. 

Almost subconsciously Gordon rose with the others to 
sing: Lord , behold us with Thy Blessing. . . . What 
would it feel like to him if this were his last Sunday, and he 
had to own that his school career were a failure? He sat 
quite quiet in his study thinking for a long time afterwards. 
He had a study alone this term. 

In the big study that it has ever been the privilege of 
the head of the House to own, Clarke also sat very silent. 
He was nerving himself for a great struggle. 

To the average individual the summer term is anything 
but the heaven it is usually imagined to be. The footer 
man hates it; the fag has to field all day on a house game 
and always goes in last; there is early school; in some 
houses no hot baths. On the first day the studies are loud 
with murmurs of: 

“Oh ! this rotten summer term.” 

“No spare time, and cricket.” 

“Awful!” 

For Femhurst was a footer school pure and simple. 
Fuller had captained England against Wales, and had 
infused much of his own enthusiasm into his Fifteen; but 
the cricket coach, a Somerset professional, lacked “the 
Bull's” personality and force, and so for the last few years 
the doings of the Eleven had been slight and unmeritable. 
Even Lovelace major had been unable to carry a whole side 
on his shoulders. As soon as he was out the school ceased 
to take any interest in the game. Femhurst batting was 
of the stolid, lifeless type, and showed an almost mechanical 
subservience to the bowling. 

But for Gordon this term was sheer joy. He loved 
cricket passionately — last season at his preparatory school 


EMERGING 


69 

he had headed the batting averages, and kept wicket with 
a certain measure of success. As a bat he was reckless in 
the extreme; time after time he flung away his wicket, 
trying to cut straight balls past point; he was the despair 
of anyone who tried to coach him; but he managed to get 
runs. 

For cricket the School House was divided into A-K and 
L-Z, according to which division the names of the boys 
fell into. Meredith was captain of the House and of L-Z, 
while FitzMorris captained A-K. For the first half of the 
term there were Junior House Single-Innings matches 
played in the American method, and afterwards came the 
Two-Innings Senior matches on the knock-out system. 
A-K Junior this year had quite a decent side. Foster was 
not at all a bad slow bowler, and was known to have made 
runs. Collins had a useful but unorthodox shot which he 
applied to every ball, no matter where it pitched, and which 
landed the ball either over shortslip’s head or over the 
long-on boundary. In the nets it was a hideous perform- 
ance, but in Junior House matches, where runs are the one 
consideration, it was extremely useful. A certain Better- 
idge captained the side, not because of any personal at- 
tainments, but merely because he was on the V. A table, 
and had played in Junior House matches with consistent 
results for three years. He went in tenth and sometimes 
bowled. 

These matches began at once, as Stewart, the captain of 
the Eleven, was anxious to spot useful men for the Colts 
sixteen or under sixteen side, who wore white caps with a 
blue dragon worked on them. And so on the second Satur- 
day of the term A-K drew Buller’s in the first round. Be- 
fore the game FitzMorris had the whole side in his study 
to fix the positions in the field. Some of the side had 
played little serious cricket before. Brown, in fact, asked 
if he might field middle and leg. But at last they were 
placed more or less to their own satisfaction, and Fitz- 
Morris gave them a short “jaw” on keenness. Cricket was 
about the one thing he really cared for; he, as a chemistry 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


70 

specialist, spent most of his day asleep in the laboratory. 
It was only in the cricket field that he really woke up. 

With great solemnity Betteridge walked forward to toss 
with Felsted, the Buller’s captain. A few seconds later he 
returned to announce that Buller’s had won the toss and 
put them in. The captain of a Junior House side is always 
very fond of putting the other side in first. P. F. Warner 
would demand rain overnight, a drying ground, a fast 
wind and a baking sun before he would dare do such a 
thing. But Felsted was made of sterner stuff. 

Gordon was sent in first with Collins. The idea was to 
try and knock the bowlers off their length early. Gordon 
was very nervous. “The Bull” was umpire at one end and 
FitzMorris at the other. Meredith had strolled over to 
watch, as L-Z had drawn a bye. Mansell was in the pa- 
vilion eating an ice. All eyes seemed on him. He had 
made Collins take the first ball. The start was worthy of 
the best School House traditions. The first ball was well 
outside the off-stump; it landed in the National School 
grounds that ran alongside of the school field. A howl 
of untuneful applause went up. This was the cricket any- 
one could appreciate, and this was the cricket that was al- 
ways seen on a School House game. The only drawback 
to it was that it couldn’t last. Collins made a few more 
daring strokes. In the second over he made a superb drive 
over shortslip’s head to the boundary, and his next shot 
nearly ended FitzMorris’ somnolent existence. It was great 
while it lasted, but, like all great things, it came to an end. 
He gave the simplest of chances to cover point, and Buller’s 
rarely missed their catches. 

It was so with nearly all the other members of the side. 
Three or four terrific hits and then back under the trees 
again. Gordon alone seemed at all comfortable. Either 
the novelty of the surroundings (it was only his second 
innings at Fernhurst), or else the presence of “the Bull,” 
quieted his customary recklessness. At any rate, he at- 
tempted no leg-glides on the off-stump, and in consequence 
found little difficulty in staying in. The boundaries, as was 


EMERGING 


7i 

natural on a side ground, were quite close. Runs came 
quite easily. During the interval after Foster’s dismissal 
“the Bull” walked across to him: 

“How old are you, Caruthers?” 

“Thirteen and a half, sir.” 

“Oh, good thing to come young. I did myself. Keep 
that left foot well across and you’ll stop in all day. Well 
done. Stick to it.” 

Gordon was amazingly bucked up. He had always heard 
“the Bull” was anti-School House, and here he was en- 
couraging one of his enemies. What rot fellows did talk. 
Splendid man “the Bull” ! He would tell Mansell so that 
night. 

And his opinion was even more strengthened when, after 
he had been clean bowled for forty-three without a chance, 
“the Bull” stopped him on the way out and said: 

“Well done, Caruthers! Plucky knock. Go and have 
a tea at the tuck-shop, and put it down to my account.” 

The School House innings closed for one hundred and 
forty-eight. “Nothing like big enough,” said Foster. 

FitzMorris overheard him. 

“Rot ! Absolute rot ! If you go on the field in that spirit 
you won’t get a single man out. Go in and win.” 

And a very fine fight the House put up. Foster bowled 
splendidly, Betteridge was fast asleep at point and brought 
oif a marvellous one-handed catch, while Gordon stumped 
Felsted in his third over. After an hour’s play seven men 
were out for about ninety. The scorers were at variance, 
so the exact score could not be discovered. There seemed 
a reasonable chance of winning. And to his dying day 
Gordon will maintain that they would have won but for 
that silly ass of an umpire, FitzMorris. Bridges, the Bul- 
ler’s wicket-keep, was run out by yards ; there was no doubt 
about it. Everyone saw it. But long hours at the labora- 
tory had made it very hard for FitzMorris to concentrate 
his brain on anything for a long time; he was happily 
dreaming, let us hope, of carbon bisulphate, when the roar, 
“How’s that ?” woke him up. He had to give the man “not 


>72 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

out” ; there was nothing else to do. Twenty minutes later, 
with a scandalous scythe-stroke, Bridges made the winning 
hit. 

“Never mind, your men put up a good fight; the luck 
was all on our side,” said “the Bull” to Caruthers. “Let’s 
see, it’s Sunday to-morrow, isn’t it? Well, on Monday, 
then, come round to the nets ; you want to practice getting 
that left foot across. Look here, just get your bat and I’ll 
toss you up one or two now at the nets !” 

That night “the Bull,” talking over the game with his 
side in the dormitories, said: “That Caruthers, you know, 
he’s a good man ; sort of fellow we want in the school. Can 
fight an uphill game. Got grit. He’ll make a lot of runs 
for the school some day.” 

On Monday Gordon saw his name down for nets' with 
the Colts Eleven. Life was good just then. If only Jef- 
fries were there too. • . . 


CHAPTER VI 


CLARKE 

F ERGUSON, the House is getting jolly slack; some- 
thing's got to be done.” 

Ferguson sat up in his chair. Clarke had been quiet 
nearly the whole of hall ; there was obviously something up. 

“Oh, I don't know. Why, only a quarter of an hour ago 
I came across Collins and Brown playing stump cricket in 
the cloisters instead of studying Thucydides. That's what 
I call keenness.” 

“What did you say to them?” 

“Oh, I've forgotten now, but it was something rather 
brilliant. I know it was quite lost on them. The Shell can't 
appreciate epigram. They ought to read more Wilde. 
Great book Intentions. Ever read it, Clarke?” 

“Oh, confound your Wildes and Shaws; that's just what 
I object to. Here are these kids, who ought to be work- 
ing, simply wasting their time, thinking of nothing but 
games. Why, I was up in the House tutor's room last night 
and was glancing down the list of form orders. Over half 
the House was in double figures.” 

“But, my good man, why worry? As long as the lads 
keep quiet in hall, and leave us in peace, what does it 
matter? Peace at any price, that's what I say; we get so 
little of it in this world, let us hang on to the little we have 
got” 

“But look what a name the House will get.” 

“The House will get much the same reputation in the 
school as England has in Europe. The English as a whole 
are pleasure-loving and slack. They worship games; and, 
after all, the Englishman is a jolly sight better fellow than 
the average German or Frenchman.” 

73 


74 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“Yes, of course he's a better fellow, but the rotten thing 
is that he might be a much better fellow still. If as a coun- 
try we had only ourselves to think about, let us put up a god 
of sport. But we have not. We have to compete with the 
other nations of the world. And late cuts are precious 
little use in commerce. This athleticism is ruining the 
country. At any rate, I am not going to have it in the 
House. In hall they’ve got to work; and if their places 
in form aren’t better next week there’s going to be trouble.” 

“Yes, there’ll most certainly be trouble. I can’t think 
why you won’t leave well alone. Lord Henry Wootton used 
to say ” 

But Clarke was paying no attention. 

That evening he got up after prayers to address the 
House. 

“Will nothing stop this fellow’s love of oratory?” mur- 
mured Betteridge. 

“I have to speak to the House on a subject which I 
consider important,’* began Clarke. (“Which probably 
means that it’s most damnable nonsense,” whispered Man- 
sell.) “The position of the members of the House in form 
order is not at all creditable. In future every week the 
senior member of each form will bring me a list with the 
places of each School House member of the form on it. 
I intend to deal severely with anyone I find consistently 
low. I hope, however, that I shall not have need to. This 
is the best house socially and athletically ; there is no reason 
why we should not be the best house at work too.” 

“As I prophesied,” said Mansell, “most damnable non- 
sense !” 

On the Second and Third Forms this speech had a con- 
siderable effect. For the first time in his life Cockburn did 
some work, and at the end of the week he was able to an- 
nounce that he had gone up two places — from seventeenth 
to fifteenth. There were seventeen in the form. 

The Shell and the Lower Fourth were, of course, too old 
to consider the possibility of actually working. It was a 
preposterous idea. Something had to be done, however, 


CLARKE 


75 

so Collins bought excellent translations of the works of 
Vergil and Xenophon. A vote of thanks proposed by 
Foster and seconded by Brown was very properly carried 
nem. con. 

But in V. B and IV. A there were some strong, rebellious 
spirits who would not bow down under any tyranny. In 
Study No. i, at the end of the passage on the lower land- 
ing, Mansell addressed a meeting of delegates with great 
fervour. 

“From time immemorial,” he thundered out, “it has been 
the privilege of the members of this House” (he had been 
reading John Bull the day before) “to enjoy themselves, 
to work if they wanted to, to smoke if they wanted to, to 
do any damned thing they wanted to. The only thing they’d 
got to do was to play like hell in the Easter term, and here’s 

that Clarke trying to make us do work, and, what is 

more, to work for Claremont! Gentlemen, let us stand by 
our traditions.” (Mr. Bottomley is useful at times.) 

“That’s all very jolly,” said the practical Farrow, “but 
what are you doing?” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we stand 
up for rights. Who ever heard of School House men work- 
ing?” 

“Now look here, my good fellows,” said the ingenious 
Archie, “it’s quite simple, if you will only do as I tell you. 
Clarke told us to bring him a form list; the obvious thing 
to do is not to bring one at all.” 

“But, you silly ass, the fellow who ought to have brought 
it will get into the very Hades of a row.” 

“Exactly. But who is the responsible person? Clarke 
said the senior man. Well, now, in IV. A I am, as far as 
work is concerned, the senior man in the form. But Hase! 
has been in the form a term longer than me, while Farrow, 
a most arrant idiot, who has only just reached the form, 
has been in the House a year longer than either of us. 
There is no senior man. We have all excellent claims to 
the position, but we waive them in favour of our inferiors.” 

Archie was at once acclaimed as the Napoleon of deceit. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


76 

That week Clarke found no form order either from IV. A 
or V. B. After prayers that evening he asked to see all 
those in IV. A and V. B. 

When the conspirators arrived at his study Clarke found 
that everything had been elaborately prepared. There was 
not a single hitch in the argument. No one was at fault. 
There had been a general misunderstanding. They were, 
of course, very sorry. Clarke listened in silence. 

“Well, I’m sorry this has happened. But when I say that 
I want a thing done, I expect it to be done. None of you 
are to blame particularly; but you are all equally guilty. 
I shall be forced to cane the lot of you.” 

There was a gasp. They had known Clarke was a strong 
man, but they had hardly expected this. Mansell was in- 
dignant. 

“But look here, Clarke, you can’t beat me, I’m a House 
cap.” 

“Can’t I?” 

“It has been a House tradition for years that a House cap 
can’t be beaten.” 

“I am sorry, Mansell, but I have little respect for tradi- 
tions. Will you all wait for me in the Sixth Form room?” 

“All right, I shall go to the Chief then.” 

“I don’t think you will, Mansell.” 

The Chief was not very fond of receiving complaints 
about his House prefects. 

It was, of course, obvious that Clarke, when he had 
started on a job like this, had to carry it through. If he 
had gone back, his position would have been impossible; 
but there could be no doubt that it was a disastrous cam- 
paign as far as the unity of the House was concerned. At 
once the House was divided into sides, and nearly the whole 
of the Sixth Form was against Clarke. 

“It’s not the duty of the head of the House to see how 
people are working. That is a House master’s job,” pointed 
out FitzMorris. “All Clarke has got to do is to see that 
the kids don’t rag in hall, and at other times more or less 
behave themselves.” 


CLARKE 


77 


The House was in a state of open rebellion. 

And the worst of it was that none of the other prefects 
made any attempt to keep order. Now there was a rule 
that in hall only three people might be allowed in one study, 
the idea being that, if more got in, work would be bound to 
change into conversation. One evening, however, a huge 
crowd slowly congregated in Mansell’s study. Lovelace 
dropped in to borrow a book, and stayed. Hunter and 
Gordon came for a chat, and stayed too. Archie Fletcher 
had, as was usual with him, done all his preparation in half- 
an-hour, and was in search of something to do. Betteridge 
heard a noise outside, walked in, and stopped to give his 
opinion on the chances of A-K beating L-Z that week. In 
a few minutes the conversation got rather heated. The 
noise could be heard all down the passage. 

Meredith came down to see what was going on. 

“Ah, ‘some’ party! Well, Mansell, got over your beat- 
ing yet?” 

There was subdued laughter. 

“I say, Meredith, have A-K the slightest chance of beat- 
ing us on Thursday?” Lovelace was captain of L-Z Junior, 
and had laid rather heavily on a victory. 

“Of course not, my good man, I’m going to umpire.” 

This time the laughter was not subdued. 

In his retreat at the far end of the studies Clarke heard 
it. Down the passage he thundered, knocked at the door, 
and came in. 

“What’s the meaning of this? You know quite well 
that not more than three are allowed in here at one time. 
Come to my study, the lot of you.” 

All this time Meredith was being jammed behind the 
door. 

“When you have quite finished, Clarke,” he said. 

“I am sorry, Meredith. Are you responsible for this?” 

“In a way, yes. I was rather afraid that the House was 
getting slack about their work. A very bad thing for a 
house, Clarke! So I took this opportunity of holding a 
little viva voce examination. We were studying ‘The Ser- 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


78 

mon on the Mount/ a singularly beautiful and impressive 
passage, Clarke! Have you read it?” 

Clarke had read it that day as the lesson in chapel. He 
had also read it rather badly, having a cold in his head. 

“You seem to have rather a large class, Meredith,” he 
said sarcastically. 

“Yes; like our good Lord, I have beaten the by-ways and 
the hedges, and I am almost afraid I shall also have to 
beat Mansell. He has singularly failed to appreciate the 
full meaning of that passage about ‘humility/ ” 

Clarke saw he was beaten, and turned away. As he 
walked down the passage he heard a roar of laughter com- 
ing from Study No. 1. 

The story was all round the House in half-an-hour, and 
on his way down to prayers Clarke heard FitzMorris say 
before a whole crowd : 

“Oh, Meredith, you are a great fellow. That's the way 
to keep these upstarts in order.” 

That night there was merriment in the games study, and 
Ferguson advised Clarke to let the matter drop. 

“After all, you know, it's not your business.” 

And perhaps Clarke realised that Ferguson was for once 
right. But he had to go on ; it was very hard, though. He 
had been quite popular before he was head of the House. 
He wished he had left a year ago. For it is hard to be 
hated where one loves. And Clarke, well as he loved Fern- 
hurst, loved the House a hundred times more. 

“Well played, Caruthers; jolly good knock.” 

“Caruthers, well done!” 

Lovelace and Mansell banged excitedly into Gordon’s 
study the evening after the Colts match v. Murchester. 
Gordon had made thirty-seven on a wet wicket, and a de- 
feat by over a hundred runs was no fault of his. He had 
gone in first wicket down, and stayed till the close. 

“It was splendid ! You ought to be a cert, for your Colts’ 
cap. The Bull’ was fearfully bucked.” 

“Oh, I don’t know; it was not so very much.” In his 


CLARKE 


79 


heart of hearts Gordon was pretty certain he would get 
his cap; but it would never do to show what he thought. 

“Oh, rot, my good man,” burst out Lovelace. “You 
didn't give a chance after the first over. And, by Jove, 
that was a bit of luck then." 

“Yes; you know, I have a good deal of luck one way and 
another. I haven’t got in a single row yet ; and I am al- 
ways being missed." 

“And some fellows have no luck at all. Now Foster was 
batting beautifully before he was run out ; never saw such 
a scandalous mix-up. All the other man’s fault. He bowled 
well, too. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he didn’t get 
his Colts’ cap. I know ‘the Bull’ likes him." 

“Do you think so?" said Gordon. He did not know 
why, but he rather hoped Foster would not get his cap. 
He himself would be captain of A-K Junior next year. It 
would be better if he was obviously senior to Foster. He 
was going to be the match-winning factor; and, so far as 
seniority goes, there is not much to choose between men 
who get their colours on the same day. 

“Of course he won’t if you don’t," Mansell said, “but I 
think he’s worth it. I say, let’s have a feed to-night. 
There’s just time before hall to order some stuff. Love- 
lace, rush off to the tuck-shop, and put it down to my ac- 
count.” 

Gordon found it impossible to work during hall; he 
fidgeted nervously. He felt as he had felt on the last day 
of his first term before prize-giving. He knew if he was 
going to get his Colts’ cap he would get it early that night. 
Stewart always gave colours during first hall. He sat and 
waited nervously ; work became quite impossible. He 
looked through The Daily Telegraph and flung it aside; 
then picked up The London Mail; that was rather more in 
his line. 

There was a sound of talking down the passage. He 
heard Clarke’s voice saying: 

“Yes, down there, third study down, No. 16." 


8o 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


A second later there was a knock on the door. He man- 
aged to gulp out: “Come in.” 

“Gratters on your Colts' cap, Caruthers. Well played!” 

Stewart shook hands with him. The next minute Gordon 
heard him walking to the school notice-board in the cloister. 
He was pinning up the notice. 

Gordon sat quite still; his happiness was too great. . . . 

No one is allowed to walk about in the studies before 
eight dining-hall. For a quarter of an hour there was 
silence in the passage. 

Eight struck ; there was an opening of doors. 

A few minutes later Hunter dashed in. 

“Well done, Caruthers. Hooray!” 

“Well done, Caruthers!” “Good old A-K!” “I am so 
glad!” Everyone seemed pleased. 

Just before prayers, as he sat at the top of the day-room 
table, FitzMorris came over to him. “Jolly good, Caruth- 
ers. Well done.” His cup was full. 

Foster did not get his cap. . . . 

The next day as Gordon was walking across the courts 
in break “the Bull” came up to him. 

“Gratters, Caruthers; wasn’t your fault you lost. I like 
a man who can fight uphill. You have got the grit — well 
done, lad.” 

“And yet,” said Gordon to Mansell, as they passed under 
the school gate, “you say that man cares only for his house. 
Why, he only loves his house because it’s a part of Fern- 
hurst; and Fernhurst is the passion of his life!” 


CHAPTER VII 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME . . . 

G ENERALISATIONS are always apt to be mislead- 
ing, but there was surely no truer one ever spoken 
than the old proverb : “When one is in Rome, one does as 
Rome does !” Parsons and godmothers will, of course, pro- 
test that, if you found yourselves among a crowd of rob- 
bers and drunkards, you would not copy them! And yet 
it is precisely what the average individual would do. When 
a boy leaves his preparatory school he has a conscience; he 
would not tell lies; he would be scrupulously honest in 
form; he would not borrow things he never meant to re- 
turn; he would say nothing he would be ashamed of his 
mother or sister overhearing. 

But before this same innocent has been at school two 
terms he has learnt that everything except money is public 
property. The name in a book or on a hockey stick means 
nothing. Someone once said to Collins: 

“I say, I want to write here, are those your books ?” 
“No ; they are the books I use,” was the laconic answer. 
The code of a Public School boy's honour is very elastic. 
Masters are regarded as common enemies; and it is never 
necessary to tell them the truth. Expediency is the golden 
rule in all relations with the common room. And after a 
very few weeks even Congreve would have had to own that 
the timid new boy would spin quite as broad a yarn as he 
could. The parents do not realise this. It is just as well. 
It is a stage in the development of youth. Everyone must 
pass through it. Yet sometimes it leads to quite a lot of 
misunderstanding. # 

There were one or two incidents during this summer 
term that stood out very clearly in Gordon's memory as 

8l 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


82 

proofs of the way masters may fail to realise the boy’s 
point of view. 

One morning just after breakfast Gordon discovered that 
he had done the wrong maths for Jenks. He rushed in 
search of Fletcher. 

“I say, Archie, look here, be a sport. I have done the 
wrong stuff for that ass Jenks. Let’s have a look at yours.” 

In ten minutes four tremendous howlers in as many sums 
had been reproduced on Gordon’s paper. The work was 
collected that morning, and nothing more was heard of it 
till the next day. Gordon thought himself quite safe and 
had ceased to take any interest in the matter. The form 
was working out some riders more or less quietly. Sud- 
denly Jenks’s tired voice murmured : 

“Caruthers, did you copy vour algebra off Fletcher?” 

“No, sir.” 

Jenks was rather fond of asking such leading questions. 

Caruthers had got rather tired of it. The man was a 
fool; he must know by this time that he was bound to get 
the same answer. 

“Fletcher, did you copy off Caruthers?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Caruthers, did you see Fletcher’s paper?” 

“No, sir.” 

How insistent the ass was getting. 

“Fletcher, did you see Caruthers’s paper?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Oh, you silly fellows. Then I shall have to put both 
your papers before the Headmaster. I’m afraid you will 
both be expelled.” 

Jenks had a strange notion of the offences that merited 
expulsion. Every time he reported a boy he expected to 
see him marching sadly to the station to catch the afternoon 
train. Once Collins had stuck a pin into a wonderful mer- 
cury apparatus and entirely ruined it. 

“Oh, Collins, you stupid boy. I shall have to report you 
to the Headmaster, and you know what that means. We 
sha’n’t see you here any more.” 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME ... 83 

Gordon had, of course, not the slightest fear of getting 
“blinked.” But still it was a nuisance. He would have 
to be more careful next time. 

“Now look here, you two,” Jenks went on, after a bit* 
“If either of you cares to own up, I won’t report you at 
all. I will deal with you myself.” 

Slowly Gordon rose. It was obviously an occasion where 
it paid to own up. 

“I did, sir.” 

“Oh, I thought as much. You see yours was in pencil, 
and if possible a little worse than Fletcher’s. Sit down.” 

Betteridge afterwards said that to watch Jenks rushing 
across the courts to see the Chief during the minute interval 
between the exit of one class and the arrival of the next 
was better than any pantomime. He was very small; he 
had a large white moustache; his gown was too long; it 
blew out like sails in the wind. Besides, it was the first 
time Jenks had ever been seen to run. 

In due time Caruthers and Fletcher appeared before the 
Chief. The result was only a long “jaw” and a bad report. 
The Chief could not perhaps be expected to see that a lie 
was any the less a lie because it was told to a master. But 
in the delinquents any feeling of penitence there might 
have been was entirely obscured by an utter scorn of Jenks. 

“After all, the man did say he wouldn’t report us,” said 
Fletcher. 

“Oh, it’s all you can expect from these ‘stinks men.’ 
They have no sense of honour.” 

It did not occur to Gordon that in this instance his own 
sense of honour had not been tremendously in evidence. 
The Public School system had set its mark on him. 

The other incident was the great clothes row. All rows 
spring from the most futile sources. This one began with 
the sickness of one Evans-Smith, who was suddenly taken 
ill in form. It was a hot day, and he fainted. Now Evans- 
Smith was an absolute nonentity. It was only his second 
term, but he had already learnt that anything that was in 
the changing-room was common property; and so when 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


84 

the matron took off his shoes before putting him to bed she 
saw Rudd's name inside. The matter was reported to the 
Chief. The Chief made a tour of the changing-room dur- 
ing afternoon school, and his eyes were opened. For in- 
stance, it was quite obvious that Turner had changed. His 
school suit was hung on his peg, his blazer was presumably 
on him, and yet his cricket trousers were lying on the floor, 
with Fischer's house scarf sticking out of the pocket. There 
were many other like discoveries. 

In hall that night the Chief asked Turner whose trousers 
he was wearing that afternoon. The wretched youth had 
not the slightest idea; all he knew was that they were not 
his own. He thought they might be Bradford’s. 

After prayers the Chief addressed the House on the sub- 
ject. He pointed out how carelessness in little things led 
to carelessness in greater, and how dangerous it was to 
get into a habit of taking other people’s things without 
thinking. He also said that it was most unhealthy to wear 
someone else's clothes. He was, of course, quite right; but 
the House could not see it, for the simple reason that it did 
not want to see it. It would be an awful nuisance to have 
to look after one's own things. Besides, probably the man 
next to you had a much newer sweater. The House in- 
tended to go on as before. And indeed it did. 

One day Ferguson thought he wanted some exercise. It 
was a half -holiday, and Clarke was quite ready for a game 
of tennis. Ferguson went down to the changing-room. 
The first thing he saw was that his tennis shoes were gone. 
He thought it quite impossible that anyone should dare to 
bag his things. Fuming with wrath, he banged into the 
matron’s room. 

‘‘I say, Matron, look here ; my tennis shoes are gone.” 

And then, suddenly, he saw the Chief standing at the 
other end of the room, glancing down the dormitory list. 

“Oh, really, Ferguson, I must see about this. Matron, 
do you know anything about Ferguson’s shoes?” 

“No, sir! Never touch the boys’ shoes. George is the 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME ... 85 

only person who looks after them; and he only cleans 
black boots and shoes.” 

“Oh, well, then, Ferguson, you'd better come with me, 
and we will make a search for them.” 

Ferguson cursed inwardly. This would mean at least 
half-an-hour wasted; and he could so easily have found 
another pair. The School House changing-room is a noble 
affair. It is about seventy feet long and sixty wide. All 
round it run small partitioned-off benches ; in the middle are 
stands for corps clothes. At one end there is what was 
once a piano. Laboriously the Chief and Ferguson hunted 
round the room. In the far corner there was an airing 
cupboard. It was a great sight to see Ferguson climb up 
on the top of this. He was not a great gymnast, and he 
took some time doing it. Hunter sat changing at one end 
of the room, thoroughly enjoying himself. 

Down the passage a loud, tuneless voice began to sing 
Who Were You with Last Night t and Mansell rolled in. 
He saw the Chief, and stopped suddenly, going over to 
Hunter. 

“What does the old idiot want?” 

“He’s hunting for Ferguson’s tennis shoes.” 

“Good Lord! and I’ve got them on.” 

“Well, get them off, then, quick.” 

In a second, while the Chief was looking the other way, 
Mansell stole across to the middle of the room and laid 
them on the top of the hot-water pipes. 

About two minutes later Ferguson burst out: 

“Look, sir, here they are!” 

“But, my dear Ferguson, I’m sure we must have looked 
there.” 

“Yes, sir. I thought we had.” 

“Er, ’t any rate there are your shoes, Ferguson, and I 
hope you’ll have a good game!” The Chief went out, 
rather annoyed at having wasted so much time. At tea 
that evening there was mirth at the V. B table. 

On this occasion trouble was avoided. But one day 
Willing, a new boy, lost his corps hat. He was certain it 


86 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


had been there before lunch. The Corps Parade was al- 
ready falling in. Seeing no other hat to fit him, he very 
idiotically went on without a hat at all. It would have 
been far better to have cut parade altogether. Clarke 
asked him where his hat was, but his ideas on the subject 
were very nebulous. The whole corps was kept waiting 
while School House hats were examined. Ten people had 
got hats other than their own. 

They each got a Georgic. . . . 

The pent-up fury of the House now broke loose. Every- 
one swore he would murder Clarke on the last day, bag his 
clothes, and hold him in a cold bath for half-an-hour. If 
half of the things that were going to be done on the last 
day ever happened, how very few heads of houses would 
live to tell the tale! It is so easy to talk, so very hard to 
do anything; a head of the House is absolutely supreme. 
If he is at all sensitive, it is possible to make his life utterly 
wretched by silent demonstration of hatred. But if he is at 
all a man, threats can never mature, and Clarke was a man. 
During his last days at Fernhurst he was supremely miser- 
able. The House was split up into factions: he himself 
had no one to talk to except Ferguson and Sandham. But 
he carried on the grim joke to its completion. In the last 
week he beat four boys for being low in form, and gave 
a whole dormitory a hundred lines daily till the end of the 
term for talking after lights out. The Chief was sorry to 
lose him; Ferguson would make a very weak head. The 
future was not too bright. 

“I say, you know, I think I had better get a ‘budge’ this 
term.” Gordon announced this fact as the Lower Fifth 
were pretending to prepare for the exam. Mansell pro- 
tested : 

“Now don’t be a damned ass, my good man ; you don’t 
know when you are well off. You stop with old Methuselah 
a bit longer. He is a most damnable ass, but his form is a 
glorious slack.” 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME ... 87 

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I think the Sixth is slacker 
still. I am going to specialise in something when I get 
there. I am not quite sure what. But it’s going to mean 
a lot of study hours.” 

At Femhurst there was a great scheme by which special- 
ists always worked in their studies. To specialise was the 
dream of every School House boy. It is so charming to 
watch, from the warm repose of your own study, black 
figures rushing across the rain-swept courts on the way to 
their class-rooms (it always rained at Fernhurst), and 
Gordon was essentially a hedonist. 

“Yes, I suppose the higher you go up the less work you 
do,” said Mansell. “When I was there with old ‘Bogus’ I 
used to prepare my lessons sometimes, and, what’s more, 
with a dictionary.” 

“Oh, Quantum mutatus ab illo,” sighed Gordon. 

“Yes, you know,” said Betteridge, “the higher you get 
up the school the less you need worry about what you do. 
The prefect is supposed to be the model of what a Public 
School boy should be. And yet he is about the fastest fel- 
low in the school. If I got caught in Davenham’s study by 
the Chief, even if I said I was only borrowing a pencil, I 
should get in the deuce of a row. But Meredith can sit 
there all hall and say he’s making inquiries about a boxing 
competition. He’s trusted. The lower forms aren’t al- 
lowed to prepare in their studies. They might use a crib, 
so they have to work in the day-room or big school. The 
Fifth is trusted to work, so it can spend school hours in 
its studies. Of course the Third works the whole time, 
while the Fifth just writes the translation between the lines 
and then plays barge cricket. It’s no use trusting a Public 
School boy. Put faith in him and he’ll take advantage of 
it ; and yet there are still some who say that Public School 
system is satisfactory!” 

“And I am one of them,” said Mansell. “I’ve had a 
damned good term so far, and next term, when I get that 
big study, I shall have a still finer time. School may be 


88 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

bad as a moral training, but I live to enjoy myself. Here’s 
to the Public School system. Long may it live !” 

Betteridge smiled rather sadly; he was not an athlete. 

The summer exams turned out a lamentably dull affair. 
Claremont superintended the Shell and the Lower Fifth. 
Anyone who wished to crib could have done so easily. But 
hardly anyone took the trouble. Mansell swore he would 
stay where he was. Ruddock, Johnstone and the other old 
stagers were all of the same opinion. Gordon had de- 
termined to get high enough for a promotion, but no 
higher; tenth would do; and it was easy to get up there. 
The small boys in the front bench were all Balliol scholars 
in embryo ; it would not pay them to crib. The great law of 
expediency overhung all proceedings. The result was that 
they were as lifeless and dull as most other virtuous things. 

There were, however, a few bright incidents, the fore- 
most of which was the Divinity exam. Claremont, we 
know, was a parson and a lover of poetry, and that term 
the form had been reading Judges and Samuel and Kings. 
As the Divinity exam, came first, it would be wise to put the 
old man in a good temper. Ruddock introduced Mr. ffoakes 
Jackson’s work on the Old Testament disguised as a writ- 
ing-pad. 

There is nothing easier than to write down correct an- 
swers to one-word questions, if only you have the answer- 
book in front of you. Ruddock’s writing-pad passed slowly 
round the back and centre benches. Next day the result 
was announced. 

“Well,” said Claremont, “I must own that I was agree- 
ably surprised by the results of the Divinity papers. The 
lowest mark was seventy-nine out of a hundred, and that 
was Kennedy.” (Kennedy was invariably top in the week’s 
order.) “Ruddock did a really remarkable paper, and 
scored a hundred out of a hundred. Johnstone and Caruth- 
ers both got ninety-nine, and several others were in the 
nineties. In fact, the only ones in the eighties were those 
who usually excel. I have taken the form now for over 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME . . , 89 

thirty years, and this is quite unparalleled. I shall ask the 
Headmaster if a special prize cannot be given to Johnstone. 
He certainly deserves one.” 

But the Chief was very wise. As he glanced down the 
mark list he realised that Johnstone’s marks could hardly 
be due to honest work. But the Chief was also very tact- 
ful. He thought, on the whole, that in a case of such 
general merit it would be invidious to single any individual 
out for special distinction, and, of course, he could not 
give prizes to everyone. He would, however, most certainly 
mention the fact at prize-giving. When he did, the ap- 
plause was strangely mingled with laughter. 

But this was only one incident in many dull hours. As 
a whole, the week’s exam, failed to provide much to look 
back on afterwards with any satisfaction. Even the Chem- 
istry exam, fell flat. FitzMorris picked up a copy of the 
paper on Jenks’s desk and took a copy of it. The marks 
here also were above the average. 

It is inevitable that the end of the summer term should 
be overhung with an atmosphere of sadness. When the 
new September term opens there are many faces that will 
be missing; the giants of yester-year will have departed; 
another generation will have taken its place. But for all 
that these last days are not without their own particular 
glory. Rome must have been very wonderful during the 
last week of Sulla’s consulship. And in the passing of 
Meredith there was something essentially splendid; for it 
happens so seldom in life that the culminating point of 
our success coincides with the finish of anything. We are 
continually being mocked by the horror of the second best. 
We do not know where to stop; we cling too long to our 
laurels; and when the end finally comes they have begun 
to wither. Death is an anti-climax. The heart that once 
loved, and was as grass before the winds of passion, has 
grown cold amid a world of commonplace. But at school 
there is no dragging out of triumphs. All too soon the 
six short years fly past, and we stand on the threshold of 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


90 

life in the very flush of our pride. “J ust once in a while 
we may finish in style.” It is not often; the roses fade. 

The final of the Senior House matches was drawing to 
a close on the last Friday of the term. Buller’s were beat- 
ing the School House L-Z easily. There had never been 
any doubt about the result. It was entirely a one-man side, 
and Meredith had managed to carry the side on his shoul- 
ders through the two first rounds. 

The House had only two wickets in hand, and still wanted 
over eighty runs to avoid an innings' defeat. But Meredith 
was still in. It had been a great innings. He had gone 
in first with Mansell, and watched wicket after wicket fall, 
while he had gone on playing the same brilliant game. 
Every stroke was the signal of a roar from the pavilion. 
The whole House was looking on. It was a fitting end to a 
dazzling career. It was like his life, reckless and magnifi- 
cent. At last he mishit a half-volley and was caught in 
the deep for seventy-two. 

As he left the wicket the whole House surged forward 
in front of the pavilion, and formed up in two lines, leav- 
ing a gangway. Amid tremendous applause Meredith ran 
between them. The cheering was deafening. 

After prayers that night the Chief said a few words 
about the match. 

“I am sorry we did not win ; but, then, I don't think many 
of us dared to hope for that. At any rate, we were not 
disgraced, and I wish to take the opportunity of congratu- 
lating Meredith, not only on his superb innings this after- 
noon, but also on his keen and energetic captaincy through- 
out the term.” 

This was the signal for another demonstration. Every- 
one beat with their fists upon their table. It was a great 
scene. 

The giants of our youth always appear to us much greater 
than those of any successive era. In future years Gordon 
was to see other captains of football, other captains of 
cricket, but with the exception of the tremendous Love- 
lace, Meredith towered above them all. He was at that 


WHEN ONE IS IN ROME . . . 


9i 


moment the very great god of Gordon’s soul. He seemed 
to be all that Gordon wished to be, brilliant and successful. 
Surely the fates had showered on him all their gifts. 

On the last Monday there was a huge feed in the games 
study. Over twenty people were crowded in. Armour 
was there, Mansell, Gordon, Simonds, Foster, Ferguson, 
everyone except Clarke. There was no one who was not 
sorry to lose Meredith; his achievements so dazzled them 
that they could see nothing beyond them. They were 
proud to have such a man in the house. It was all sheer 
happiness. 

Somehow on the last day the following notice appeared 
on the House board : — 

In Memoriam 

MALEVUS SCHOLARUM 
In hadibus requiescat 
Quod non sine ignoniinia militavit 

No one knew who was responsible for it. Clarke looked 
at it for a second and turned away with a face that ex- 
pressed no emotion. 

By the Sixth Form green Simonds was shouting across 
to Meredith: 

'‘Best of luck, old fellow, and mind you come down for 
the House supper. . . .” 

On the way down to the station Archie Fletcher burst 
out: 

“Well, thank God, that swine Clarke’s gone. He abso- 
lutely mucked up the House.” Gordon agreed. 

“If we had a few more men like Meredith now!” Rather 
a change had come over the boy who a year before had 
been shocked at the swearing in the bathroom. “When 
one is in Rome . . .” 


1 



BOOK II.— THE TANGLED SKEIN 


“Et je m’en vais 
Au vent mauvais 
Qui m’emporte 
Dega dela 
Pareil a la 

Feuille morte.” 

Paul Verlaine. 























CHAPTER VIII 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 

I F Gordon were given the opportunity of living any single 
year over again, exactly as he had lived it before, he 
would in all probability have chosen his second year at 
Fernhurst. He had then put safely out of sight behind 
him the doubts and anxieties of the junior; he had not yet 
reached any of the responsibilities of the senior. It was 
essentially a time of light-hearted laughter, of “rags,” of 
careless happiness. Every day dawned without a trace 
of trouble imminent; every night closed with a feed in 
Mansell’s big study, while the gramophone strummed out 
rag-time choruses. And yet these three terms were very 
critical ones in the development of Gordon’s character. 
Sooner or later every one must pass through the middle 
stage Keats speaks of, where “the way of life is uncertain, 
and the soul is in a ferment.” Most boys have at their 
preparatory schools been so carefully looked after that 
they have never learnt to think for themselves. They take 
everything as a matter of course. They believe implicitly 
what their masters tell them about what is right and wrong. 
Life is divided up into so many rules. But when the boy 
reaches his Public School he finds himself in a world where 
actions are regulated not by conscience, but by caprice. 
Boys do what they know is wrong ; then invent a theory to 
prove it is right ; and finally persuade themselves that black 
is white. It is pure chance what the Public School system 
will make of a boy. During the years of his apprenticeship, 
so to speak, he merely sits quiet, listening and learning; 
then comes the middle period, the period in which he is 
gradually changing into manhood. In it all his former ex- 

95 


9 6 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

periences are jumbled hopelessly together, his life is in itself 
a paradox. He does things without thinking. There is no 
consistency in his action. Then finally the threads are un- 
ravelled, and out of the disorder of conflicting ideas and 
emotions the tapestry is woven on the wonderful loom of 
youth. 

The average person comes through all right. He is sel- 
fish, easy-going, pleasure-loving, absolutely without a con- 
science, for the simple reason that he never thinks. But 
he is a jolly good companion; and the Freemasonry of a 
Public School is amazing. No man who has been through 
a good school can be an outsider. He may hang round the 
Empire bar, he may cheat at business; but you can be cer- 
tain of one thing, he will never let you down. Very few 
Public School men ever do a mean thing to their friends. 
And for a system that produces such a spirit there is some- 
thing to be said after all. 

But for the boy with a personality school is very danger- 
ous. Being powerful, he can do nothing by halves ; his ac- 
tions influence not only himself, but many others. On 
his surroundings during the time of transition from boy- 
hood to manhood depend to a great extent the influence 
that man will work in the world. He will do whatever he 
does on a large scale, and people are bound to look at him. 
He may stand at the head of the procession of progress; 
he may dash himself to pieces fighting for a worthless 
cause, and by the splendour of his contest draw many to 
him. More likely he will be like Byron, a wonderful, ir- 
responsible creature, who at one time plumbed the depths, 
and at another swept the heavens — a creature irresistibly 
attractive, because he is irresistibly human. Gordon was a 
personality. His preparatory school master said of him 
once: “He will be a great failure or a great success, per- 
haps both,” and it was the truest thing ever said of him. At 
present the future was very uncertain. During his first 
year he had been imbibing knowledge from his contempo- 
raries ; he had been a spectator ; now the time had come for 
him to take his part in the drama of Fernhurst life. All 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 97 

ignorant he went his way; careless, arrogant and proud. 

It must be owned that during this year Gordon was 
rather an objectionable person. He was very much above 
himself. For five years he had been tightly held in check, 
and when freedom at last came he did not quite know how 
to use it. He was boisterous and noisy; always in the 
middle of everything. If ever there was a row in the 
studies, it would be a sure assumption that Caruthers was 
mixed up in it. Everything combined to give him a slack 
time. 

Ferguson was head of the House. But he took only a 
casual interest in its welfare. 

“My dear Betteridge,” he used to say, “if you were aware 
of the large issues of art and life, you would see that it 
would be a mere waste of time worrying about such a little 
thing as discipline in a house. You should widen your in- 
tellectual horizon. Read Verlaine and Baudelaire and then 
see life as it is.” 

Ferguson was a poet; twice a term the school magazine 
was enriched with a poem from his pen. His last effort 
had been magnificent; it was called Languor , and opened 
with the superb line : 

“In amber dreams of amorous despair.” 

“The Bull” had asked someone in his house what the 
thing meant. To Ferguson that seemed a high compliment. 
To be incoherent was a great gift. Swinburne often meant 
very little, and in his heart of hearts Ferguson thought 
Languor was, on the whole, more melodious than Dolores. 
But that was, of course, purely a matter of opinion. At 
any rate, it was a fine composition; and a poet must not 
dabble in the common intrigues of little minds. 

He let the House go its own sweet way; and the House 
was grateful, and gave Ferguson the reputation of being 
rather a sport. There were no more weekly orders; no 
more cleaning of corps clothes. There was at last peace in 
Jerusalem, and plenteousness within her palaces. 

Simonds was captain of the House. He was working 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


98 

hard for a History scholarship, and could not spend much 
time in looking after House games. There would be tons 
of time in the Easter term to train on House sides. So 
he, too, let things slide, and the House lived a happy life. 
Those who wanted to play footer, played ; those who wanted 
to work, worked ; those who wished to do nothing, did 
nothing. A cheerful philosophy. For a week it worked 
quite well. 

Gordon was lucky enough to find himself in the position 
of not only not wanting to work, but also not having to. 
He had got his promotion into V. A, and found it a land 
of milk and honey. Macdonald, his form master, was one 
of the most splendid men Fernhurst has ever owned on its 
staff. For over forty years he had sat in exactly the same 
chair, and watched generation after generation pass, with- 
out appearing the least bit older. He grew a little stout, 
perhaps. But his heart was the same. It took a lot to 
trouble him. He realised that the world was too full of 
sceptics and cynics, and swore that he would not r umber 
himself among them. He was now the senior assistant 
master and was the best scholar on the staff. 

“You know, these young men aren’t what we were,” he 
used to say to his form ; “not one of them can write a decent 
copy of Latin verses. All these Cambridge men are use- 
less — useless!” In his form it was unnecessary to work 
very hard; but in it the average boy learnt more than he 
learnt anywhere else. For Macdonald was essentially a 
scholar; he did not merely mug up notes by German com- 
mentators an hour before the lesson. For him the classics 
lived; and he made his form realise this. To do Aristo- 
phanes with him was far better than any music hall. Horace 
he hated. One day when they were doing Donee gratus 
eram tibi, he burst out with wrath : 

“Horrible little cad he was! Can’t you see him? Small 
man, blue nose with too much drinking. Bibulous little 
beast. If I had been Lydia I would have smacked his face 
and told him to go to Chloe. I’d have had done with him. 
Beastly little cad!” 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 99 

But it was in history that he was at his best. It was a 
noble sight to see him imitate the weak-kneed, slobbering 
James I. ; and he had the private scandals of Henry VIII. 
at his finger-tips. For all commentators he had a profound 
contempt. One day he seized Farrar’s edition of St. Luke, 
and holding it at arm’s-length between his finger and thumb, 
shook it before the form. 

“Filth,” he cried, “filth and garbage; take it away and 
put it down the water-closet.” He had a genius for spon- 
taneous comments. Kennedy was very nervous ; and when- 
ever he said his rep. he used to hold the seat of his trousers. 

“Man, man!” Macdonald shouted out, “you won’t be 
able to draw any inspiration from your stem.” 

His form would be in a continuous roar of laughter all 
day long; and when particularly pleased it always rubbed 
its feet on the floor, a strange custom that had lasted many 
years. Claremont’s form-room was situated just above 
him, and he could often hardly hear himself speak. He 
used to complain bitterly. 

“How I wish my jovial colleague down below would keep 
his form a little more in order.” 

But Macdonald got his revenge one day when Claremont 
was reciting Macbeth’s final speech fortissimo to his form. 

“Hush!” said Macdonald. “We must listen to this.” 
Suddenly he chuckled to himself : “And do you think he 
really imagines he is doing any good to his form by giving 
that nigger minstrel entertainment up there?” 

The roar of laughter that followed quite spoilt the effect 
of the recitation. Work became quite impossible in V. B. 

It was about this time that the House began to interest 
itself in the welfare of Rudd. Rudd was the senior scholar 
of the year before, and he looked like it. He was fairly 
tall and very thin. His legs bore little relation to the rest 
of his body. They fell into place. He was of a dusky 
countenance, partly because he was of Byzantine origin, 
partly because he never shaved, chiefly because he did not 
wash. His clothes always looked as if they had been rolled 
up into a bundle and used for dormitory football. Per- 


100 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


haps they had. Rudd was not really a bad fellow. He 
was by way of being a wit. One day the Chief had set the 
form a three-hour Divinity paper, consisting of four long- 
ish questions. One was : “Do you consider that the teach- 
ing of Socrates was in some respects more truly Christian 
than that of St. Paul?” Rudd showed up a whole sheet 
with one word on it: “Yes.” Next day his Sixth Form 
privileges were taken away. But the House took little 
notice of his academic audacities. Rudd did not wash; he 
was an insanitary nuisance; moreover, he did not play 
footer. 

“That man Rudd is a disgrace to the House,” Archie an- 
nounced one evening after tea ; “he’s useless to the House ; 
he slacks at rugger and is unclean. Let’*s ship his study.” 
There was a buzz of assent. There was a good deal of 
rowdyism going on in the House just then; and at times 
it would have been hard to draw the exact border-line be- 
tween ragging and bullying. A solemn procession moved 
to Study No. 14. Rudd was working. 

“Hullo, Byzantium,” said Mansell. “How goes it?” 

“Oh, get out, you ; I want to work !” 

“Gentlemen, Mr. Rudd wishes to work,” Betteridge an- 
nounced. “The question is, shall he be allowed to? I say 
‘No!’” He suddenly jerked away the chair Rudd was 
sitting on : the owner of the study collapsed on the floor. 

Archie at once loosed a tremendous kick at his back. 

“Get up, you dirty swine ! Haven’t you any manners ? 
Stand up when you are talking to gentlemen.” 

Rudd had a short temper ; he let out and caught Mansell 
on the chin. It is no fun ragging a man who doesn’t lose 
his temper. But, as far as Mansell was concerned, proceed- 
ings were less cordial after this. He leapt on Rudd, bore 
him to the ground, and sat on his head. Foul language was 
audible from the bottom of the floor. Rudd had not studied 
Euripides for nothing. Lovelace picked up a hockey stick. 
“This, gentlemen,” he began, “is a hockey stick, useful as 
an implement of offence if the prisoner gets above himself, 
and also useful as a means of destroying worthless prop- 


QUANTUM MUTATUS ioi 

erty. I ask you, gentlemen, is it right that, while we should 
have only three chairs among two people, Rudd should 
have two all to himself? Gentlemen, I propose to destroy 
that chair” 

In a few minutes the chair was in fragments. A crowd 
began to collect. 

“I say, you men,” shouted Gordon, “the refuse heap is 
just opposite; let's transfer all the waste paper of the last 
ten years and bury the offender.” 

Just across the passage was a long, blind-alley effect run- 
ning under the stairs, which was used as a store for waste 
paper. It was cleaned out about once every generation. 
In a few minutes waste-paper baskets had been “bagged” 
from adjoining studies, and No. 14 was about a foot deep 
in paper. 

“That table is taking up too much room, Lovelace,” 
Bradford bawled out; “smash it up.” 

The table went to join the chair in the Elysian Fields. 
Rudd was now almost entirely immersed in paper. The 
noise was becoming excessive. Oaths floated down the 
passage. 

At last Ferguson moved. In a blase way he strolled down 
the passage. For a minute he was an amused spectator, 
then he said languidly: “Suppose we consider the meet- 
ing adjourned. I think it's nearly half-time.” Gradually 
the crowd began to clear; Rudd rose out of the paper like 
Venus out of the water. A roar of laughter broke out. 

“Well, Rudd, I sincerely hope you are insured,” mur- 
mured Ferguson. 

What Rudd said is unprintable. In his bill at the end 
of the term his father found there was a charge of ten 
shillings for damaged property in Study No. 14. Rudd 
got less pocket-money the next term. 

“I say, you fellows, have you heard the latest? The 
Bull' has kicked me out of the Colts.” 

Lovelace came into the changing-room, fuming with rage. 
There had been a Colts' trial that afternoon. Buller had 
cursed furiously and finally booted Lovelace off the field, 


102 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

with some murmured remarks about “typical School House 
slackness.” 

“It’s damned rot,” said Bradford. “Because Simonds 
has made rather an ass of himself in the last two matches. 
Bull thinks the whole House is slack. He gave Turner six 
to-day just because he hadn’t looked up one word. I hope 
he does not intend to judge the whole House by Simonds.” 

The House was getting fed up with Simonds. It’s all 
very well working in moderation for scholarships, but when 
it came to allowing games to suffer through it, it was get- 
ting serious. Private inclination cannot stand in the way 
of the real business of life. And no one would hesitate to 
own that he had come to Fernhurst merely to play footer. 

“But, you know, I don’t think ‘the Bull’s’ that sort,” 
Gordon protested; “he may lose his temper and all that, 
but I think he’s fair.” 

“Do you?” said Hunter drily. 

There was a laugh. As a whole, the House was certain 
that “the Bull” was against them. 

In a week’s time Lovelace was back again in the Colts, 
and Gordon was telling his friends what fools they were 
not to trust “the Bull.” 

Gordon was confirmed this term. He was rather young; 
but it was obviously the thing to do, and, as Mansell said : 
“It’s best to take the oath when you are more or less ‘pi/ 
and there is still some chance of remaining so. For you 
can’t tell what you will be like in a year or so.” . 

As is the case with most boys, Confirmation had very 
little effect on Gordon. He was not an atheist; he ac- 
cepted Christianity in much the same way as he accepted 
the Conservative party. All the best people believed in it, 
so it was bound to be all right ; but at the same time it had 
not the slightest influence over his actions. If he had any 
religion at this time it was House football ; but for the most 
part, he lived merely to enjoy himself, and his pleasures 
were, on the whole, quite innocuous. They very rarely 
went much beyond ragging Rudd. 

“Do you think,” said Gordon, the evening after his first 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 103 

confirmation address, “that the masters really believe con- 
firmation has any effect on us? Because you know it 
doesn't." 

“I don't think it matters very much," said Hunter, “what 
masters think; most of them here have got into a groove. 
They believe the things they ought to believe; they are all 
copies of the same type. They've clean forgotten what it 
was like at school. Hardly any of them really know boys. 
They go on happily believing them 'perhaps a little ex- 
citable, but on the whole, perfectly straight and honest.' 
Then a row comes. They are horrified. They don't realise 
all of us are the same. They've made themselves believe 
what they want to believe." 

“Yes, and when they are told the truth, they won't be- 
lieve it," said Better idge. “You know, I was reading an 
article in some paper the other day, by an assistant master 
at Winchborough, called Ferrers. Fie was fair cursing the 
whole system. Well, I showed that to Claremont, just for 
a rag; told him I thought it was rather good. The old 
fool looked at it for some time, and then said: 'Well, 
Betteridge, don't form your style on this. It is very per- 
fervid stuff. Not always grammatical.' All the ass thinks 
of is whether plurals agree with singulars ; he does not care 
a damn whether the material is good." 

“That's it," said Gordon. “Masters try to make you 
imitate, and not think for yourself. 'Mould your Latin 
verses on Vergil, your Greek prose on Thucydides, your 
English on Matthew Arnold, but don’t think for yourself. 
Don’t be original.' If anyone big began to think he’d see 
what a farce it all is ; and then where would all these fossils 
be? It's all sham; you read men’s reports. Bradford gets 
told he's a good moral influence. Mansell works hard and 
deserves his prize. It is hoped that confirmation will be a 
help to me. Rot, it all is !" 

“Oh, I'm not so certain confirmation is a farce," broke 
in Bradford. “If you don’t believe in it, you won’t get to 
heaven." 

“But who the hell wants to get there," said Mansell. 


104 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“Sing hymns all day long. I can imagine it. Fancy having 
Caruthers singing out of tune in your ear for ever. It's 
bad enough in chapel once a day. But for ever !” 

“My good lads, you don’t know what heaven’s like,” 
whispered Bradford confidentially. “Claremont was gass- 
ing away about Browning the other day, and said that he 
believed that in heaven you could do all the things you 
wanted to do on earth ! And by Jove I would have a hot 
time — some place, heaven!” 

“By Jove, yes; but you know, Bradford, there won’t be 
much left for you to do in heaven; at the rate you are 
going you will have done most things on earth.” 

“Oh, I am going to reform, and then I shall write to 
Claremont and tell him how I, a wandering sheep, was 
brought home by his interpretation of Andrew Dol Portio — 
I think that’s what the thing was called.” 

“Of course, that is an idea,” said Mansell, “but I am 
not so sure of what’s going to happen when we’re dead. 
I am going to have a jolly good time, and then take the risk. 
I never hedge my bets.” 

“Well, you may go on your way to the eternal bonfire,” 
said Bradford, “but I am for righteousness. Now, listen 
to this, it’s in the book we have to read for confirmagers. 
Daily Lies on the Daily Path : ‘. . . If you think that in 
your house things are being talked about that would shock 
your mother or sister, don’t merely shun it as something 
vile. It is your duty to fight against it; reason with the 
boys. They probably have some grain of decency left in 
them. If that fails, report the matter to your house master. 
He will take your side. The boys will probably be expelled, 
but you will have done your duty, as Solomon says in 
Proverbs. . . .’ There now, Mansell. I am one of the 
children of light. So you know what to expect from me. 
Shall I reason with you, lad? Have you a grain of de- 
cency left in you, or must I ” 

At this point a well-aimed cushion put an end to the 
fervour of the new child of light. Betteridge sat on his 
head. 


QUANTUM MUTATUS ioj» 

“Look here, Bradford,” he began, “you may be a con- 
vert and all that, but don't play John the Baptist in here. 
It does not pay. Very shortly I shall carry your head to 
the dustbin in a saucer. Let me tell you the story of one 
Stevenson in Mr. Macdonald’s house. He was, like you, 
about to be confirmed, and was, like you, very full of him- 
self. And being, as Lovelace, a lover of the race-course, 
he walked about in his study in hall, chanting us a dirge 
out of sheer religious fervour: ‘My name is down for the 
confirmation stakes.’ Macdonald passed the door and, on 
hearing him, entered and said: ‘Well you are scratched 
now at any rate!’ Take that to heart, and be not as the 
seeds that are sown on stony ground, which spring up in 
the night and wither in the morning.” 

Betteridge intoned the whole lecture. The story was in 
a way true, but the Stevenson in question had shouted down 
the passage : “Hurrah, no prep, to-night ; my name is down 
for the confirmation stakes.” With the result as above. 
Gordon burst out: 

“By the way, talking of Macdonald, he made a priceless 
remark to-day. Kennedy, that little cove in Christy’s, came 
in late and began stammering out that it was only a minute 
or two over time; Macdonald looked on him for a minute, 
and then said: ‘Your excuse is just about as good as' the 
woman who, having had an illegitimate baby, protested that 
it was only a small one.’ ” 

“By Jove, he’s some fellow. Now he’s a man,” said 
Mansell. “He’s a boy still; he can see our side of the 
question, and he knows what footling idiots half of the 
common room are. If we had more like him.” . . . 

“And it would be a jolly good thing, too,” said Betteridge, 
“if we could get a really young master like that Winch- 
borough man, Ferrers, I was telling you about. He’d stir 
things up a bit.” 

At that moment the Abbey sounded half-past eight. 

“Good Lord,” said Hunter, “only quarter of an hour 
more, and we’ve done nothing the whole of hall. Let’s 
rout out Lovelace and go and rag Rudd.” 


.io6 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

In three minutes Rudd was under the table, with Mansell 
seated on his chest. 

It was rather unfortunate that Gordon should have 
chosen Tester to have a study with. Tester was over six- 
teen, was in the Lower Sixth, and had got his Seconds at 
cricket. He was a House blood. Gordon did not care for 
him particularly. But he had a good study, No. i, at the 
far end of the lower landing, and Gordon wanted a big 
study. It was so very fine to sit chatting to Foster or 
Collins in one of the small studies for a little time and then 
to say suddenly, in a lordly manner: “Oh, look here, there's 
no room here at all. Come down to my study, there are 
several arm-chairs there!" 

It is always pleasant to appear better than one's equals. 
But Tester was a dangerous friend to have at a time when 
the mind is so open to impressions. For Tester had not 
risen to his position on his own merits alone. Lovelace 
major had always said he was not much good, and the year 
before had not given him his House cap. But Tester was a 
very great friend of Stewart’s, the captain of the Eleven. 
Stewart gave him his Seconds for making twenty against 
the town, so Meredith had to give him his House cap. It 
is a school rule that a “Seconds" must have his House 
cap. And Tester was not improved by his friendship with 
Stewart, and the pity was that he was really clever. He 
could always argue his case. 

“I never asked to be brought into this world," he said, 
“I am just suddenly put here, and told to make the best 
of things ; and I intend to make the best of things. I am 
going to do what I like with my life. Wrong and right 
are merely relative terms. They change to fit their en- 
vironment. Baudelaire would not have been tolerated in 
the Hampstead Garden Suburb; Catullus would not have 
been received in Sparta. But at Paris and Rome customs 
were different. We only frame philosophies to suit our 
wishes. And I prefer to follow my own inclinations to 
those of a sham twentieth-century civilisation." 

Gordon did not like this; but if one lives daily in the 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 107 

company of a man who is clever and a personality, one is 
bound to look at life, at times, at any rate, through his spec- 
tacles. Gordon began to look on things which he once 
objected to as quite natural and ordinary. 

“I say, Caruthers, I hope you don’t mind, clearing out 
of here for a bit,” Tester would say. “Stapleton is just 
coming up here for a few minutes. You quite understand, 
don’t you?” 

As soon as we begin to look on a thing as ordinary and 
natural, we also begin to think it is right. After a little 
Gordon ceased to worry whether such things were right 
or wrong. It was silly to quarrel with existing conditions, 
especially if they were rather pleasant ones. Gordon had 
a study with Tester till the end of the summer. 

One day, towards the end of the Easter term, Gordon 
asked Tester, rather shyly, if he would leave him alone a 
little. “I’ve often cleared out for you, you know.” 

“Of course, that’s quite all right, my dear fellow. Any 
time you like, I understand !” Tester smiled as he walked 
down the passage. 

But during the winter term Gordon worried about little 
except football; when he was not playing, he was ragging. 
Form he looked on as a glorious recreation. He was learn- 
ing more than he ever learned afterwards without making 
much effort. Macdonald was a scholar; he did not teach 
people by making them work, he taught them by making 
it impossible for them to forget what he told them. No one 
who has ever been through the Upper Fifth at Fernhurst 
would have the sligthest difficulty in writing a character 
sketch of any English king, even though he might never 
have read a chapter about him. Macdonald made every 
man in history a living character; not a sort of rack on 
which to hang dates and facts. 

Football, however, was not going quite so satisfactorily. 
Gordon was never tried for the Colts Fifteen, although he 
subsequently proved himself better than most of the other 
forwards in it, and had to play in House games every day. 
Once a week a House game is a thundering good game, but 


io8 


THE LOOM OE YOUTH 


more often it is very one-sided, and for a person who really 
cares for footer, such afternoons are very dull. On the 
Upper or Lower a good game was certain; the captain of 
the school always chose sides that would be fairly level. 
But House sides were very different. Nothing depended 
on their results. Sometimes bloods would play, sometimes 
not; it was merely a toss up. And worst of all, Simonds 
was abominably slack. For a few weeks the House thought 
it rather funny, and the smaller members of the House 
secretly rejoiced; but the games-loving set waxed furious. 

“Damn it all,” said Mansell, “the man’s here to coach us, 
not to sit in his study swating up dates!” 

The result of it was that Mansell and his friends got 
filled with an enormous sense of their own importance; 
they considered themselves the only people in the House 
who were keen. And they let the rest of the House know 
it. They groused about “the great days of Lovelace,” and 
gave people like Rudd a most godless time. There is no 
more thoroughly self-satisfied person than the second-class 
athlete; and when he also imagines himself an Isaiah 
preaching repentance, he wants kicking badly. Unfortu- 
nately no one kicked Gordon or Lovelace; and they went 
on their way contented with themselves, though with no 
one else. 

One of the easiest ways of discovering a person’s social 
status at school is by watching his behaviour in the tuck- 
shop. The tuck-shop or “Toe,” as it is generally called, 
is a long wooden building with corrugated iron roof, situ- 
ated just opposite Buller’s house, not far from the new 
buildings. It was only erected in 1908, and it is to be 
hoped that it is only temporary, for it is amazingly ugly. 
It is divided by a wooden partition into two shops ; at each 
end of the outer shop run two counters. On the right- 
hand counter, which is connected with a small kitchen, 
cakes, muffins and sausages are sold; on the left-hand side 
there are sweets and fruit. The inner and larger room is 
filled with tables, and round the room are photographs of 
all the school teams. At the far end, in huge green frames, 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 


109 

are hung photographs of the two great Fernhurst Fifteens 
who went through the season without losing a match. The 
“Toe” is the noisiest place in the whole school. It is super- 
intended by five waitresses, and they have a very poor time 
of it. 

The real blood is easily recognised. He strolls in as if he 
had taken a mortgage on the place, swaggers into the inner 
room, puts down his books on the top table in the right- 
hand corner — only the bloods sit here — and demands a cup 
of tea and a macaroon. A special counter has been made 
by the bloods' table, so that the great men can order what 
they want without going back into the outer shop. No 
real blood ever makes a noise in the outer shop. When he 
is once inside the inner shop, however, he immediately lets 
everyone know it. If he sees anyone he knows, he bawls 
out: 

“I say, have you prepared this stuff for Christy?” 

The person asked never has. 

“Nor have I. Rot, I call it.” 

No blood is ever known to have prepared anything: 

The big man then sits down. If a friend of his is any- 
where about, he flings a lump of sugar at him. When he 
gets up he knocks over at least one chair. He then strolls 
out, observing the same magnificent dignity in the outer 
shop. No one can mistake him. 

But the only other person who makes no row in the 
outer shop is the small boy. He creeps in, and creeps out, 
quite unnoticed. Everyone with any claim to greatness as- 
serts his presence loudly. The chief figures at this time 
were the junior members of Buller’s, and especially the 
two Hazlitts. Their elder brother was the school winger, 
and an important person; but they had done nothing but 
make a noise during their two years at Fernhurst. Athleti- 
cism had had a disastrous effect on them. Because their 
house had won the Thirds, Two Cock and Three Cock, they 
thought themselves gods. In the tuck-shop they acted as 
avenging angels sent to punish a wicked world. Their chief 
amusement was to see a person leaning over a counter, 


I 10 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


kick his backside when he was not looking, and then run 
away. It was their class that were the real nuisance in 
the “Toe.” They persecuted the girls in charge most damn- 
ably. Very often only one girl was in charge. The younger 
Hazlitt would at once seat himself on the other counter 
and shriek out: 

“Nellie, when are you coming over here? I shall bag 
these sweets if you don’t buck up.” He would then seize 
a huge glass jar of peppermints, and roll it along the zinc 
counter. 

“Oh, Mr. Hazlitt, do leave that alone,” the wretched 
Nellie would implore. But it was no use. When there was a 
big crowd waiting to be served, the Hazlitt brethren would 
take knives and beat on the zinc counter, shouting out: 
“Nellie, come here!” They were a thoroughly objection- 
able pair. Whenever Mansell saw them, he kicked them 
hard, and they got rather frightened of the School House 
after a bit. 

It is not to be thought, however, that the behaviour of 
the School House was exemplary. Mansell usually kicked 
up an almighty row, but he left “Nellie” alone. He was 
not going to lower himself to the Hazlitt level. 

It is an amazing thing that the half-blood very rarely 
gets into a row ; and yet he always talks as if expulsion 
hung over his head. Probably he thinks it draws atten- 
tion to himself. Mansell would always enter the shop in 
exactly the same way; he banged his books on the counter 
and, sighting Hunter, fired off at once. 

“I say, look here, give me a con. I am in the hell of a 
hole. I prepared the wrong stuff for old Claremont, and 
the man’s getting awfully sick with me; he may report me 
to the Chief. Do help me out!” 

“Sorry, old cock,” said Hunter, “but I specialise in 
stinks !” 

“Oh, do you? Well, I suppose I shall have to chance 
it; that’s all. He may not shove me on.” 

The small boys thought Mansell’s daring very fine. But 
strangely enough, although he was always in a state of fear- 


QUANTUM MUTATUS hi 

ful agitation, he had so far singularly managed to avoid 
getting reported. But still it kept up appearances to talk 
a lot. 

Gordon, of course, had to be fairly quiet in the tuck- 
shop. He was not yet known among the school in general ; 
and it was only in Buller’s that small boys gave tongue in 
the tuck-shop. But then Buller’s were, in their own opin- 
ion, to the rest of the school as Rome was to Italy. Fern- 
hurst was merely a province of Buller’s. They kept this 
view to themselves, however. “The Bull” would have dealt 
very summarily with such assumptions. 

. And so, when Lovelace and Tester and Mansell were 
there Gordon was generally to be found contributing his 
share to the general disorder, but when alone, he sat quite 
quietly with Collins and Foster. He rather longed for 
the day when he could start a row all on his own. A 
strange ambition for any candidate for immortality! 

About the middle of the term was the field day at Salis- 
bury Plain. Most of the Public Schools were present; it 
was a noble affair from the general’s point of view. The 
school, however, considered it a putrid sweat. For hours 
they pounded over ploughed fields; and, like most field 
days, the day dragged slowly on to its weary close. At 
last two hundred very tired privates fell into the six-fifty to 
Fernhurst. The army class got off early school next 
morning. 

Two days later a notice was brought round by the school 
custos: “Roll for all those who went to Salisbury Plain 
on Wednesday in the big schoolroom at six p.m.” There 
is nothing quite so enjoyable as the sensation that a big 
row is on, in which you yourself have no part. Gordon 
trembled with excitement. He whispered excitedly to the 
man on his left, Lidderdale, a man in Rogers’: “What’s 
up?” 

“Oh, nothing much. Some silly ass put his bayonet 
through a carriage window. Rogers was gassing about it 
in the dormitories last night.” 


1 1 2 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“Oh!” said Gordon. Very disappointedly he returned 
to his academic activities. He had had hopes of some 
splendid row, and after all, it was only about a silly ass 
and a bayonet. Rotten! Fancy being made late for tea 
because of that. But, as it turned out, his hopes were 
satisfied. When he reached the big schoolroom, everything 
certainly looked most formal. In front of the big dais 
where the choir stood during the concerts sat all the masters 
in a half-circle. The Chief sat in the centre. 

“Are they all here, Udal?” the Chief asked the senior 
sergeant. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The Chief rose. 

“I have to address you to-night on a very serious subject. 
During the field day last Wednesday, someone in this room 
disgraced not only his school, but the King’s uniform. An 
officer from another school has written to tell me that he 
overheard two of you talking outside the canteen in lan- 
guage that would disgrace a costermonger. I sincerely wish 
he had taken their names at once. As it is, I do not know 
their names. The officer in question said that both boys 
were over seventeen, and that the shorter of the two said 
nothing at all, as far as he could hear. Now I want the 
names of both those boys. If they own up to me to-night, 
I shall most certainly deal very severely with one at least 
of them. If they do not come to me of their own free will, 
I may be forced to ask the officer to come down and iden- 
tify the boys, in which case both will from that instant 
cease to be members of Fernhurst School.” 

In a state of high excitement the school poured down to 
tea. 

“I bet it’s someone in Christy’s,” said Bradford. 

Christy believed in leaving his house entirely to his pre- 
fects. It was a good way of avoiding responsibility; but 
his choice of prefects was not altogether wise. 

“Do you think the men will own up ?” said Gordon. 

“Not unless they’re most abandoned fools,” replied Love- 
lace. 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 113 

There was only one topic of conversation at tea, and 
afterwards Lovelace, Hobson and Gordon discussed the af- 
fair keenly in No. 1. They all agreed that the men would 
not own up, and the general opinion was that someone in 
Christy’s was responsible. Discussion raged fiercely as to 
who it was. Gordon was all for it being Isaacs, Lovelace 
for Everington, Hunter for Mead. The point was being 
debated when Tester and Bradford came in. 

“Hullo, come in,” shouted Gordon, “we are having a 
great fight about this. I say Isaacs is the most likely man. 
What do you think?” 

Tester looked round carefully, and then began anxiously: 

“Look here, you men ; swear you won’t tell a soul if we 
tell you something.” 

The oath was taken. 

“Well, it’s us !” 

There was a hush. “Good Gawd !” said Hunter. Silence 
ensued; but curiosity soon overcame surprise. 

“What did you say, by the by?’" asked Gordon. 

Tester repeated as far as he could remember the exact 
words. 

“Yes, you know; it was a bit hot, wasn’t it? I expect 
you opened the blighter’s eyes a bit. He wasn’t used to 
that sort of literature.” 

In spite of themselves Tester and Bradford laughed. 
They had been vaguely aware of a tired-looking figure in 
a Sam Browne as they left the canteen. He had looked 
“some ass.” But Gordon soon became serious again. 

“What are you men going to do? Of course you won’t 
own up.” 

“No; well, we can’t very well. I am in the Sixth and 
Bradford’s had one row this term, and of course I was the 
criminal. I am supposed to be a responsible personage.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Gordon. “I know owning up is 
quite out of the question.” 

“But do you think anything will happen?” Bradford 
was a little frightened. “I mean will there be a sort of 
general inspection?” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


1 14 

“Oh, my good man, there’ll be nothing of the sort. 
When a master begs men to own up, it means that he’s up 
the spout. It’s much more fun catching a fellow red- 
handed. And, after all, you two are the last people anyone 
would think of.” 

“Of course, it’s all right,” said Lovelace; “there’s only 
one thing to do. You talk of nothing else but this rotten 
affair; talk about it in the Toe, in the changing-room, in 
form, in chapel, if you like. Ask people you meet if they’ve 
owned up. Treat the whole thing as a glorious rag.” 

“Yes,” shouted. Gordon, “let’s go down to Rudd and tell 
him if he doesn’t own up we’ll give him hell.” 

And in truth the next half-hour was for Rudd very hell 
of very hell. His existence just now was not very pleasant. 
If he had been good at footer all his domestic failings would 
have been forgiven him. But he was not; he loathed the 
game, though at times he would have given anything to be 
of some use. Strangely enough, at Oxford he found people 
respected his brains, and no one hated him because he could 
not drop goals from the twenty-five. Life is full of com- 
pensations. 

Lovelace and Tester were both supreme actors. That 
night in the dormitory they were full of the subject. After 
lights out, they kept the whole place in a roar of laughter. 
Bradford joined in a bit, but he was still nervous; visions 
rose up before him of an officer passing down the ranks, 
suddenly seizing him, and saying: “This is the man.” It 
was hardly a ravishing thought; but it was useless to go 
back on a lie. Tester realised this. As Ferguson came, 
he called out : 

“I say, Ferguson, you know you’d better go up to the 
Chief and tell him you did it.” 

Ferguson was, like the Boy Scout, always prepared. 

“My good man, you don’t surely imagine I am so devoid 
of good feeling and have such a hazy conception of the 
higher life as not to inform the Headmaster. I have just 
returned from breaking the news to him. He took it quite 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 115 

well on the whole. It was a touching scene. I nearly 
wept.” 

Betteridge then arose, and gave an imitation of Rogers* 
sermon. 

'‘Well, Ferguson, I must own that I am sorry to lose 
you. I would give much to retain you here. But dis 
aliter visum: you must go. You are expelled. Between the 
Scylla of over-elation and the Charybdis of despair you have 
a long time steered the bark of the School House. But 
one failing wipes away many virtues. And we must not 
discriminate between the doer and the deed, the actor and 
the action, the sinner and the sin. The same punishment 
for all. But in that paradisal state where suns sink not 
nor flowers fade, there will be a sweet reunion.” 

It was pure Rogers. The dormitory rocked with laughter. 
Tester began to give his impressions of what the officer 
must have looked like. There was a heated argument as to 
whether he .was a parson. Mansell thought not. 

“A fellow who knows his Bible well would not be shocked 
with a little swearing. I bet some of the bits in Genesis 
and Samuel are hotter than anything the blighter said. It 
was probably some dotard who reads Keats.” 

This seemed a sound piece of reasoning. 

Next day the rumour spread round the school that a 
half-holiday was going to be stopped, as no one had owned 
up. 

“Safety,” said Tester. “That means the chase is given 
up.” 

But the school, which, up to now, had treated the affair 
as a joke, began to get annoyed. Tolerance and broad- 
mindedness were all right as long as their own interests 
were secure; but when it came to a half-holiday being 
stopped because some blighter had not the decency to 
own up 

“It’s a scandal,” said Fletcher, in front of the House 
studies. “First this blighter does the school a lot of harm 
by swearing; and then he is in too much of a funk to own 


1 1 6 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

up, and we get in a row for it. Man must be a colossal 
swine.” 

He forgot that last night he had been treating the whole 
thing as a joke. Rogers was passing by up the Head- 
master’s drive on the way to his class-room, and overheard 
this outburst of righteous indignation. His heart was at 
once rejoiced to see such a good moral tone in the school. 
As he said in the common room: “It makes one proud to 
see what a sane, unprejudiced view the school takes of this 
regrettable incident.” 

Lovelace now hit on a great plan. “Let’s organise a 
strike,” he said. “Why should we go into school to- 
morrow ? If we can get enough to cut, we can’t be punished. 
Let’s canvass.” 

The fiery cross of rebellion was flung down the study 
passages. With lists of paper in their hands, Hunter, 
Mansell, Lovelace and Gordon (Tester thought himself too 
big a blood for such a proceeding) dashed into study after 
study urging their inhabitants to sign on for the great strike. 

“Come on, you men,” Hunter said. “It is the idea of a 
lifetime. If enough don’t turn up, nothing can happen. 
You can’t sack the whole school.” 

A few bright rebels like Archie Fletcher signed on at 
once. Rudd, too, thought it safer to put his name down. 
But the average person was more cautious. 

“How many have you got down?” 

“Oh, about fifteen.” 

“Well, look here, if you get over fifty I’ll join in.” 

As nearly everyone said this, the hopes of successful 
^operations seemed unlikely. 

But still it all helped to disarm any trace of suspicion. 

“I say, Ferguson, what do you think of all this?” said 
Mansell. 

“I think a great creed has gone down. I shall no longer 
believe that conscience and cowardice are synonymous ; only 
conscience is the trade name of the firm.” 

Mansell laughed. It was probably meant to be funny. 
He never quite understood Ferguson. On the next after- 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 1 1 7 

noon everyone sat down to two hours* extra school. 
There was much swearing at tea. But in a day or two it 
was all forgotten. 

To this day no one at Fernhurst knows who the two boys 
were. The secret was well kept. 

As the term drew to its close, with the Fifteen filled 
up and all the big matches over, interest was centred 
mainly in House football and House affairs. Mansell, it is 
true, was still worrying whether he would get his Seconds. 
But Lovelace and Gordon talked of nothing but the Thirds. 
The Colts* matches were over, and on House games one of 
the two House sides was always a trial Thirds. Edwards, 
a heavy, clumsy scrum-half, was captain of the side ; Gordon 
led the scrum. 

“If only we had Armour back as House captain/* Hunter 
used to complain, “that side couldn’t lose.** 

“And we sha*n*t lose either/* said Gordon ; “we are going 
to sweep the field next term, and we are going to drive the 
ball over the line somehow, and God save anyone who gets 
in the light.** 

No House side ever imagines it is going to be beaten. 
Three Cocks have been lost by over fifty points ; yet on the 
morning of the match half the “grovel** would be quite 
ready to lay heavy odds on their chance of winning, and 
whenever there is a good chance of victory, the House is 
absolutely cocksure. The result of this is that the House is 
magnificent in an uphill fight, but is rather liable to fling 
away a victory by carelessness. 

But this side was certainly “pretty hot stuff.** It took a 
lot to stop Stewart when once he got the ball, and Lovelace 
was brilliant in attack. The grovel was light, and was a 
little inclined to wing, but in the loose it was a big scoring 
combination. In the last week of the term there was a 
House game on, the Lower v. Buller’s. Simonds turned 
out the Thirds side. It was a terrific fight. Buller’s had 
two Seconds playing and a House cap ; but the House had 
had the advantage of having played together. There was, 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


118 

at this time, a good deal of bad blood between the House 
and Buller’s, and the play was not always quite clean. 
There was a good deal of fisting in the scrum. Gordon was 
in great form; he scored the first try with a long dribble, 
and led the pack well. Lovelace dropped a goal from a 
mark nearly midway between the twenty-five and the half- 
way line. Collins scrambled over the corner from a 
line out. Buller’s only scored once, when Aspinall, their 
wing three, who had his Seconds, got a decent pass, and 
ran practically the whole length of the field. Towards the 
end, however, the light House grovel got tired and was 
penned in its own half. “Come on, House,” Gordon yelled. 
“One more rush; let the swine have it!” The House was 
exhausted, it managed to keep Buller’s out; but no more. 
This was an ominous sign. It had not been a long game. 

J'The Bull” had been watching the game. As the players 
trooped off the field, he called back Gordon. “Caruthers, 
here a second. You know, I don’t want to interfere where 
it’s not my business, but you know I don’t think you should 
call another house 'swine.’ To begin with, it’s not the 
English idea of sport, and I think if there’s any ill feeling 
between two houses in a school, especially the two biggest, 
I don’t think it’s good for the school. Do you see what I 
mean ?” 

“Oh yes, sir. I didn’t mean ” 

“Of course you didn’t, my dear chap. ... By the way, 
will you be young enough for the Colts’ next year? You 
will. Good. Then it won’t be at all a bad side. Collins 
and Foster were quite good ; and you played a really good 
game.” 

“What did 'the Bull’ want, Caruthers?” Lovelace asked, 
as Gordon walked into the changing-room. 

“Oh, nothing much. He didn’t like me calling his fellows 
'swine.’ ” 

“But why the devil not? They are swine, aren’t they?” 

“Of course they are; but you can hardly expect 'the 
Bull’ to realise it.” 


QUANTUM MUTATUS 


119 

“No, perhaps not; but, my God, they are the last thing 
in swine, those Hazlitts and their crowd ” 

The House supper this year was not much, compared 
with the one of the year before. Simonds was not an 
R. D. Lovelace, and Ferguson again spoke miles above his 
audience. However, he was a sport, and let them do as 
they liked ; so they drank his health and sang : He's a Jolly 
Good Fellow! Several old boys came down, FitzMorris 
with an eyeglass and a wonderful tie; Sandham, as usual, 
quite insignificant ; Armour wearing the blue waistcoat of a 
Wadham drinking club. Meredith had been expected, but 
at the last moment he had found his debts so much in excess 
of a very generous allowance that he would have to retrench 
a little. It was a pity; but in the Bullingdon living is not 
cheap and Meredith was a great blood. 

The prize-giving this term afforded little comfort to 
Gordon ; he was easily bottom of V. A. Rather a collapse, 
but still one has to keep up with things. It does not 
do to lose sight of the really important issues of life, and 
Gordon had certainly been a social success. He travelled 
up to London with Ferguson and Tester, and felt no small 
part of a giant when Collins entered their carriage, suddenly 
saw Ferguson, and with inaudible apologies vanished quickly 
down the corridor. Olympus was not so very far off. 


CHAPTER IX 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 

D URING the Christmas holidays there appeared in a 
certain periodical one of the usual attacks on the Pub- 
lic School system. It repeated all the old arguments about 
keeping abreast of the times, and doing more modem lan- 
guages and less classics. The writer had nothing new to say, 
and, like most other such attacks, his jeremiad was in an 
hour or two quite forgotten. But at Fernhurst it did have 
some effect, for it gave Henry Trundle the idea of forming a 
special class for French enthusiasts. Henry Trundle was 
one of the French masters. He was entirely English, had 
won his Blue for golf at Oxford, and had got a Double First. 
He also was quite incapable of teaching anything. His form 
made no pretence of keeping order; the noise that pro- 
ceeded from his class-room could be heard anywhere within 
a radius of a hundred yards. And yet he was not a bad 
fellow ; he was a good husband, and his children were very 
fond of him. His domestic virtues, however, were sadly 
lost on Fernhurst, who looked on him as a general buffoon, 
a hopeless ass. His class-room was considered a sort of 
Y. M. C. A. entertainment hall, where there were singing and 
dancing, and a mild check on excessive rioting. 

At the beginning of the new term the Chief announced 
that in the upper school one hour every day would be 
devoted to the study of either French, maths or Latin. 
Each boy would choose his subject. Mr. Reddon would 
superintend the maths, Mr. Trundle the French; for Latin 
each boy would go to his own form master. To the hard- 
working, who had prizes before their eyes, this scheme 
presented few attractions; as scholars it would not be to 

120 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


I2V 


their advantage to miss any classical hours, and French was 
so useless in scholarships. Macdonald, when he took down 
the names of those who were to do Latin, found all those 
in front staying with him, and all those behind going else- 
where. Macdonald laughed up his sleeve. 

“I suppose, Caruthers, you think you are going to get a 
jolly good time rushing about making odours in the labora- 
tory, and reciting French verbs. Well, I hope you’ll enjoy 
yourselves, that’s all.” Then he added, as an afterthought: 
“If I know Mr. Trundle, you most certainly will.” 

His prophecy was correct. Mr. Reddon’s maths was, for 
the most part, composed of orderly and more or less sincere 
mathematicians; but Trundle’s class-room was filled with 
the most arrant collection of frauds that have ever sat 
together this side of the Inferno. It was largely a School 
House gathering. Lovelace was there; Hunter, Mansell, 
Gordon, Archie and Collins. Christy’s house supplied 
Dyke, a fine footballer and a splendid ragger; Claremont’s 
sent two typical doormice in Forbes and Scobie; Buller’s 
provided no one. Briault hailed from Rogers.. It was his 
boast that he could imitate any kind of animal from a dog 
to a hyena. Benson, the only member of Abercombie’s, 
was entirely insignificant, and actually did some work 
for the first two lessons. But it was impossible to work 
long in such surroundings; and tales of the extra French 
set are still told in whispers, after lights out, in the upper 
dormitories. 

The opening was sensational. No sooner had Trundle 
taken his seat than Dyke leapt to his feet, jumped on the 
desk, jumped off it into the vast paper basket, upset that, 
charged up to Trundle, shook him by the hand, and began 
to pour out words: “My dear sir, how are you? How is 
Mrs. Trundle, and the little Trundles? Have you had a 
pleasant Christmas? I have, sir. This, sir, is your extra 
French set. The French set — Mr. Trundle; Mr. Trundle — J 
the French set.” Amid a beating of desks Dyke returned 
to his seat. Trundle was used to this. But he had rather 
hoped his new set would be composed for the most part of 


122 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


honest young scholars. It was a disappointment; still, he 
had grown used to it. Life had not been too kind to him. 

“Now, let me see,” he began, “who’s the senior man 
here ?” 

Immediately everyone except Benson stood up. “I am, 
sir.” 

“But you can’t all be the senior.” 

“Yes, sir; we are,” was the unanimous answer. 

“You see, sir,” Gordon explained, “I am the cleverest 
and should be the senior, but Mansell there, that dolt with 
the tie-pin, has been longer in the school, and he’s got his 
Seconds, and rather fancies himself. Dyke has taken longer 
to reach IV. A than anyone else in the school’s history, 
and thinks that a sufficient claim to be senior. Lovelace, 
oh, well, he’s — well, I don’t know what he is. Lovelace, 
you swine, what are you?” 

“Confound you, man !” shouted the enraged three-quarter. 
“Who the hell ” 

“Lovelace,” broke in Trundle, “I think you may keep 
your reflections on the future life till afterwards. We will 
sit in alphabetical order.” 

It is incredible how long it takes for ten boys to change 
their places. It was a long process. Books fell to the 
right and to the left. There were murmurs of “Damn 
you, man, that’s my grammar!” or “Confound you, 
Benson!” “Where the hell is my dictionary?” Twice 
Benson had been sent flying into the waste-paper basket; 
three times had Dyke driven a compass into the backside 
of Forbes, who looked like going to sleep. To crown every- 
thing, Briault gave his celebrated imitation of a dog-fight. 
Consternation reigned. Lovelace tried to hide under 
Trundle’s desk; Gordon endeavoured to get through a 
window that was hardly a foot square. Macdonald’s class- 
room was just the other side of the V. A green ; he chuckled 
to himself. “I hoped Caruthers would enjoy himself. I 
think we shall have to put him on to construe when he 
returns. If he goes to music-hall shows in school time 
he must pay for it, you know.” 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


123 


There was an immense scuffling of feet, but much louder 
rang the noise of the French students. A question had 
arisen as to what book they should read that term. Every- 
one was shouting the name of his favourite author. “Let’s 
do The Little Thing,” yelled Dyke. “No; de Maupassant,” 
shouted Mansell, adding, in an undertone: “I saw one of 
his books in a shop in Villiers Street, looked pretty hot 
stuff.” Then louder again: “Let’s have de Maupassant.” 
“No; The Black Tulip,” Lovelace implored, and went on 
in a stage whisper: “Now don’t be silly fools, I have got 
a crib of this. Have some sense.” “You don’t imagine 
we’re going to prepare the stuff, do you?” was Hunter’s 
retort. Above the uproar Forbes’ voice drawled: “I say, 
if there’s a French translation of Five Nights, let’s read 
that. I know the book pretty well by heart.” 

It was ultimately decided to read six contes by Frangois 
Coppee ; but by the time the decision had been reached, the 
hour had been exhausted. Rather sadly Trundle watched 
the set pour out into the cloister, shouting and laughing. 
Even masters have souls. Boys don’t realise this. 

Every day till the end of the term that farce continued. 
Sometimes Trundle lost his temper. One day, Archie was 
singing: Meet me under the Roses, while Gordon was giving 
a lively if inaccurate translation. 

“Fletcher, stop that singing!” 

“Mayn’t I sing, sir?” 

“Of course not. This is a class-room.” 

“Is it, sir? I thought it was a place of amusement.” 

“Fifty lines, Fletcher.” 

“But, sir, it is, you know ” 

“One hundred lines, Fletcher.” 

“Really, sir ” 

“One hundred and fifty lines, Fletcher.” 

Fletcher collapsed. Next morning a magnificent blue 
envelope, sealed at every corner, arrived at Mr. Trundle’s 
house. It contained a vast quantity of blank paper. 

“But, sir, I really thought I put in the lines. Hunter, 
you swine, that is your fault, Sir, I believe Hunter stole 


124 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


them. He had a big imposition for the Chief. You dirty 
dog, Hunter. May I kick him, sir ?” 

“No; sit down, Fletcher.” 

The lines were never done. 

One day Collins was put on to construe. Of course he 
had made no attempt to prepare it. This was at once 
evident. 

“Collins, have you prepared this?” 

“No, sir.” 

“But why not?” 

Collins had seen Charley's Aunt in the holidays. “Ah, 
why?” was his laconic answer. 

Trundle foamed with wrath. He snatched a cane from 
under his desk and advanced on Collins. The prospective 
victim leapt back and pointed at him with theatrical calm: 
“Look, he is coming at me with cane in hand. Ha! he 
comes ! he comes ! see how he comes.” 

Trundle launched a fierce blow at Collins, and only 
narrowly missed Benson's eyes. Collins delivered a short 
lecture on the danger of losing one's temper. Trundle 
returned to his desk. 

As the term went on the ragging became more elaborate. 
At first the set was content with giving a sort of low 
comedian, knockabout performance. But they soon 
wearied of such things. After all, they were real artistes. 
And Archie Fletcher could not bear being ordinary. But 
still there was a good deal of sport to be got out of quite 
commonplace manoeuvres. The introduction of electric 
snuff, for instance, may not be very original; but it was 
most certainly remarkably successful. 

Trundle had a habit of leaving his mark-book in his 
desk, and Lovelace had a key that fitted it. The rest was 
simple. During evening hall Hunter and Lovelace got 
leave to fetch a book from their class-room. There was no 
one about. In five minutes Trundle’s mark-book was 
filled with snuff. Next morning the set assembled. Forbes 
was asleep, Benson was furtively looking up a word in his 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


125 

dictionary, the School House contingent was uncommonly 
quiet. 

“Well,” said Trundle, “who shall we start off with 
this morning? Let me see, ah!” He opened his mark-book. 

The roar of laughter was heard the other side of the 
court. For a full three minutes Trundle was utterly, 
gorgeously prostrate with coughing and sneezing. 

Mansell was very sympathetic. 

“Have you a cold, sir? I hope it’s nothing serious, sir. 
I find the east wind a little trying myself. Do you ever 
use Fletcher’s cough lozenges? Very efficacious, sir,” he 
babbled on. 

At last Trundle recovered his wind if not his temper. 
He glowered at the form. 

“Fletcher, translate, please.” 

Fletcher began. But he did not get very far. Hunter 
let loose another wave of snuff. The whole form was now 
coughing and sneezing certainly considerably more than 
was necessary. 

“Next boy who sneezes I shall give a hundred lines to, 
and report him to the Headmaster.” 

Temporary peace ensued. It is not pleasant to be sent 
up to the Chief; and weak masters have not the slightest 
scruple in doing so. The strong men need not report. But 
a man like Archie could not be kept in order long. He gave 
vent to a most unpleasant snort. 

“Fletcher, if you do that again I shall have to beat 
you.” 

A slight pause. 

“Please, sir, may I blow my nose if I mayn’t sniff?” 

“Yes, Fletcher; don’t be stupid.” 

Immediately there rose a chorus of “Mayn’t we blow our 
noses, too, sir? Why should Fletcher be the only one 
allowed to ? It isn’t fair.” 

Trundle gave way, and the rest of the hour was spent 
entirely in coughing, shouting and sneezing. No work 
was done. But that was no unusual occurrence in the extra 
French set. 


.126 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

This was, of course, the sort of amusement that could be 
only indulged in once. It would grow stale a second time. 
But Briault’s idea of fancy dress was one that presented 
infinite opportunities and gave full scope for originality. 
At first nothing very startling occurred. On a freezing 
cold day the whole set would assemble without waistcoats 
and with their coats wide open would complain bitterly 
of the heat; on a warm day they would go in arrayed as 
for an Antartic expedition in wonderful scarves and huge 
gloves. 

“It's disgraceful, sir, how cold this room is,” Gordon 
complained. “I am very sensitive to cold, and there are 
two windows open. They must be shut.” 

“Well, Caruthers, if you find this room too cold,” replied 
Trundle sarcastically, “you may return to the warmth 
of your own study and write me out the lesson ten times. 
Do you prefer that?” 

Trundle thought that rather smart, but Gordon was 
never beaten. 

“Sir, I do prefer an unfairly long imposition to an attack 
of pneumonia,” and with that he sailed out of the room; 
the “impot” was, of course, never done. Only Benson 
did things for Trundle. 

From this day on to discover a new kind of dress was the 
aim of Archie’s life. What he devised the form always 
copied. One day the Chief gave out an order that, owing 
to the extreme cold, woollen waistcoats would be allowed, 
provided they were of a quiet colour. That night Archie 
searched the studies. For sixpence he purchased from a 
new boy a threadbare carpet that had not been brushed or 
cleaned for generations. This he cut up into six parts, 
and each School House member of the set somehow or 
other made for himself a waistcoat out of them. Next 
day, garbed in these, they rolled sedately to Trundle’s, 
their coats flung open, their hands in their trouser pockets. 

Trundle sat speechless. At last he found words. 

“What is the meaning of this confounded impertinence? 


HEALTHY PHILISTINIS. 


Collins, Mansell, Caruthers, Hunter, Lovelace, a* 
Fletcher, take off that filthy stuff.” 

“That stuff, sir,” drawled out Forbes. “What stuff?” 

“Don't interfere, Forbes,” rapped out Trundle. “Take 
them off, I say.” 

“Oh, do you mean our waistcoats, sir?” asked Hunter, 
in superbly feigned surprise. “We couldn’t take them 
off; we should catch a cold. The Headmaster has just 
given out a notice about them. He said we could wear 
them.” 

“He never gave you permission to garb yourselves in the 
refuse of the neighbourhood.” 

“Refuse?” said Forbes. “Those waistcoats are of a 
most fashionable cut. It’s extremely hard to get that 
particular brand of cloth; my brother, who is a member 
of the Bullingdon, told me ” 

“I don’t want to know anything about your brother, 
Forbes. Take off those things. The Headmaster would 
never allow them.” 

“But, sir,” insisted Archie. “He only said that they 
must be of a quiet colour, and they are of a quiet colour, 
aren’t they, sir?” 

In truth they were. There was not a trace of colour 
visible anywhere. Trundle gave in. He murmured some- 
thing about asking the Headmaster, and then put on 
Archie to con. He never asked the Chief ; and there was 
no need for him to do so. It is not pleasant wearing dust- 
laden carpets for an hour. Such jests can only be under- 
taken at rare intervals. 

But the culminating point was not reached till the last 
Thursday of the term. It was boat-race day, and the set 
unanimously backed Oxford. At ten o’clock the set was 
due to appear. But when Trundle arrived all he found 
was Benson, who was in nervous apprehension lest he 
should have come to the wrong room. If he had, he might 
lose some marks ; and marks were more to him than many 
boundaries. He smiled happily at Trundle. 

“Ah, where are the rest, Benson?” 


xHE LOOM OF YOUTH 

A t know, sir.” 

.n, well, I suppose we must wait, but it is a great 
misance. I wanted to finish the book to-day, it's our last 
lesson, you know.” 

The next day was Good Friday. 

For ten minutes they sat in silence. It takes a long time 
to prepare a big rag; the curtain very seldom goes up 
punctually on the first night; and there had been no dress 
rehearsal. There was a sound of scuffling from the door 
in the cloister which led into the School House studies. 
Then came the tread of measured feet. The door opened, 
and the great procession entered. 

At the head was Gordon in Ferguson’s dressing-gown 
(a great white confection with pale pink frogs) with a 
white Colts’ cap on his head; he beat time with a small 
swagger cane. Then came the trumpeters, Crosbie and 
Forbes, who were producing strange harmonies on two pipes 
that they had bagged from the armoury. Behind them Man- 
sell walked in corps clothes and a Second Fifteen cap. He 
was chanting a low dirge. On each side of him marched the 
choristers, Lovelace and Hunter, in white sheets and 
enormous psalters that they had borrowed from the chapel. 
They also sang in a strange outlandish tongue. But the 
piece de resistance was the banner. It consisted of a long 
piece of white calico on which was inscribed in red ink: 
“Up, Up, Oxford. Down with the Cantabs.” (Trundle 
hailed from Emmanuel.) It was fastened at each end to 
a hockey stick, and Fletcher and Collins bore it in solemnly. 
In the rear, Briault gave his impressions of a cow being ill. 
Dyke was the showman. 

“I will now present, gentlemen,” he began, “my circus 
of touring artistes, who are raising a fund for the endow- 
ment of the Oxford boating club. I must beg you all ” 

But Trundle cut short the oration. Seizing a cane, he 
rushed into the cavalcade of Isis, and smote out full lustily. 
Pandemonium broke forth. No battle-field was more rich 
in groans; no revue chorus produced so much noise. It 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


129 

took a quarter of an hour to obtain quiet. But at last a 
motley crowd sat down to study Frangois Coppee. 

And then came the denouement. It was entirely un- 
expected and entirely unrehearsed. There was a knock 
outside. The door opened and an amazing apparition 
appeared on the threshold. Betteridge was in the Sixth. 
Very enviously the night before he had listened to the 
preparations and plans of the extra French set: cursing 
inwardly, he had sat down at ten o'clock to do prose with 
the Chief. Faintly across the court were borne the sounds 
of strife. He groaned within him. Suddenly the Chief 
stood up. 

“I find I shall have to leave you for a little. Some 
parents are coming to interview me. I want you all to 
return quietly to your studies, and continue the prose 
there.” 

Joyfully the Sixth trooped out. Betteridge rushed across 
the courts to Trundle’s class-room. For a second he 
listened outside, then a great idea struck him. There was 
still half-an-hour left. Madly he tore up to the dormitories. 
Luckily they were not locked. Five minutes later he 
appeared before Mr. Henry Trundle entirely changed. He 
had on a very light brown suit, a pair of check spats, a 
rainbow-coloured waistcoat, a heliotrope bow tie; a bowler 
was balanced on his head at an angle of forty-five degrees, 
a camera was slung round his neck, in his hand he had a 
notebook and pencil. 

“Mr. Trundle, I believe,” he said. “I am the reporter 
of The Fernhurst Gazette. We have received a wire that 
there has been a great pro-Oxford demonstration in here, 
and we want to get an account of it in the stop press news 
before our sister journal, The Western Evening Transcript . 
Can you give me some notes ?” 

As he stopped, the set, that had remained spellbound, 
burst into a hilarious shriek of joy. Everyone heard it; 
even Claremont woke up and asked what it was. Arthur, 
the school custos, talks of it to this day. 

And at this point the Chief comes into the story. He was 


130 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


showing the parents in question round the studies when he 
heard an uproar proceeding from somewhere near the 
cloisters. He excused himself from the parents, ran down- 
stairs, and tracked the noise to Trundle’s class-room. He 
entered. Never before had he seen disorder on such a 
generous scale. He looked round. 

“Mr. Trundle — er — what er — set is this?” 

“The extra French set, Headmaster.” 

The Chief half smiled. He walked out without another 
word. 

Next term there was no extra French set. 

The ragging of Trundle, however, was merely regarded as 
a relaxation from the serious business of life. In an Easter 
term football is the only thing that any respectable man will 
really worry about. And Gordon, judged on these grounds, 
and his friends with him, would most certainly pass into 
the most select society circle. The Thirds this year was 
a terribly perplexing problem. Simonds had not taken 
enough trouble with his juniors the term before. This term 
he was working hard enough, but it was a bit late in the 
day to begin. On the first Saturday of the term a scratch 
side took sixty-five points off the prospective Thirds side. 

“If you play as badly as that on the day you’ll lose by 
forty points,” growled Simonds, “and you’ll damned well 
deserve a beating, too.” 

“Curse the man,” muttered Lovelace. “Whose bloody 
fault is it but his, I should like to know ? He is a disgrace 
to the House, working for some rotten scholarship when he 
ought to be training on our juniors. Rotten swine.” 

“Well, he’s pretty well all right this term, at any rate,” 
said Gordon. “For the Lord’s sake don’t go growsing 
about, or we sha’n’t keep the score under eighty, let alone 
ninety. If we lose, we lose; and, my God, we’ll make ’em 
play for it.” 

The side certainly tried hard, and Simonds did his best, 
but all the same, on the day of the match, Buller’s were 
backing their chances of running up a score of over thirty 
points at three to one. 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 13 1 

“The swine !” said Gordon. “Swanking it about how 
they are going to lick us to bits. My word, I would give 
something to smash them to smithereens. I have taken 
on a bet with every man in Buller's whom I found offering 
long odds. I stand to win quite a lot. And I shall win it.” 

“God's truth,” said Mansell, “do they think there's no 
guts left in the House at all? They may go gassing about 
the number of Colts' badges they have got, but they are not 
used to our way of playing. We go for the ball, and if a 
man's in the light we knock him out of it. School House 
footer is not pretty to look at; but it’s the real thing, not 
a sort of nursery affair. We go in to win.” 

Just before lunch a typical telegram from Meredith was 
pinned up on the House board : 

“Go it House. And give them ” 

The blank was left to the imagination. The House re- 
membered Meredith and filled it in accordingly. 

Nothing is more horrible than the morning before a first 
House match. Gordon woke happy and expectant, but 
by break he had begun to feel a little shivery, and at lunch- 
time he was done to the world. He ate nothing, answered 
questions in vague monosyllables, and smiled half nervously 
at everyone in general. He was suffering from the worst 
kind of stage fright. And after all, to play in an important 
match before the whole school is a fairly terrifying experi- 
ence. As he sat trembling in the pavilion, waiting for the 
whistle to blow, Gordon would have welcomed any form 
of death, anything to save him from the ordeal before him. 
The whistle blew at last. As he walked out from the pavilion 
in his magenta-and-black jersey, an unspeakable terror 
gripped him; his knees became very weak; his tongue 
stuck to the roof of his mouth, and then something seemed 
to snap in his brain. He walked on quite cheerfully. He 
was as a spectator. It seemed that it was not really he, 
but his ghost that was walking on to the field. Sub- 
consciously he lined up with the rest. The School side in 
their white jerseys, the Colts with their red dragons, seemed 


132 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

miles away. Collins kicked off. Gordon did not know he 
was playing. A roar of “House” rose from the touch-line. 
Involuntarily he joined it, thinking himself a looker-on, 
then suddenly Livingstone, the Buller’s inside three-quarter, 
caught the ball and ran towards him. At once, Gordon was 
himself. He forgot the crowd on the touch-line, forgot his 
nervousness, forgot everything except that he was playing 
for the House, and somehow or other had to drive the ball 
over that line. He crashed into Livingstone, and the pair 
rolled into touch. A cheer rippled down the line. Gordon 
did not hear it. 

The Fernhurstian described this match as “perhaps 
the finest ever witnessed on the School ground,” and the 
reporter was not far wrong. Certainly that first mad rush 
of the House forwards was the most glorious moment in 
Gordon’s football career. It was all so unexpected, so 
essentially wonderful. On the touch-line Mansell shouted 
himself hoarse. The cries of “House” completely drowned 
those of “School.” For the first quarter of an hour the 
School pack never got the ball out of their half. It seemed 
that the House must score. Time after time, the School 
were forced to touch down. Stewart was brought down 
just the wrong side of the line. Lovelace performed pro- 
digies of valour. A gloom descended over Buller’s. On 
the Masters’ side of the line “the Bull” fumed and ground 
his teeth: “Go low, Reice, you stinking little funk. Get 
round, forwards, and shove; you are slacking, the lot of 
you. Buck up, Philson.” Up and down he stamped, curs- 
ing at his men. Lovelace could hardly refrain from laugh- 
ing. 

“Now, lads,” shouted Stewart, “fair or foul; shove the 
ball over the line !” Like a sledge-hammer Gordon crashed 
into the scrum. Wilkinson was in his light, but Gordon was 
seeing red, his feet stamped on Wilkinson, and found the 
ball. His elbows swung viciously, as he cut his way through 
the scrum. Then someone caught him by the ankle. He went 
down hard. A boot caught him on the side of the head. 
He got up blind with wrath. “Fight! Fight!” he yelled. 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


133 

The House grovel swarmed in ; the outhouse pack shivered 
for a moment, then gave way. Collins and Gordon burst 
through, the ball at their toes; Wilkinson dashed across 
and dived for the ball ; he clawed it for a second, Gordon's 
feet smashed it from his hands, and Collins steered it past 
the back, and kicked it just over the line and fell on top 
of it. 

From the touch-line there burst a roar that must have 
been heard five miles away. “Well done, laddie!" bawled 
Mansell. Even Ferguson waved his stick in the air. It 
was a great moment. 

As the School lined up behind their line, “the Bull" strode 
behind them. “What are you doing? Put some life 
into vour game. Buck up, all of you; it is a filthy show. 
Guts!" 

Lovelace took the kick. It was far out : the ball hardly 
rose from the ground. In a state of feverish panic Living- 
stone dropped out. For a second or two the School pressed. 
But it was impossible to withstand the wild attack of the 
House for long. Collins, elated by his success, brought 
off a magnificent dribble, and was forced into touch only 
a few yards from the line. Half-time was not far off. And 
the House struggled fiercely to get over the line once more. 
Up and down between the goal line and the twenty-five 
the two scrums fought. It seemed only a matter of time 
for another try to send the House across with a lead of six 
points ; but there is as much luck in rugger as in any game. 
The House had heeled perfectly, Foster cut past one man, 
and passed out to Richards. A roar of “House !" went up, 
A try was imminent, Richards passed to Lovelace. But 
Livingstone was one of those three-quarters who will miss 
an easy kick one minute and bring off a superb collar the 
next. As Richards passed, he dashed between him and 
Lovelace, intercepted the pass, and raced up the field. 
Collins caught him only a foot away from the line, and 
from the line out Grienburg, a heavy Buller forward, caught 
the ball and fell over the line by the flag, just as the whistle 


I 34 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


was about to blow for half-time. It was very far out, and 
the kick failed. The sides crossed over 3-3. 

Simonds came on during the interval almost incoherent 
with excitement. “Splendid, you fellows! Magnificent! 
Never saw anything like it. Stick to it and you’re bound 
to win. Simply putrid luck that last try . . . keep it up !” 

On the touch-line there was no doubt as to the final result. 
“We shall walk away with the Cup,” said Mansell, and in 
a far corner Jones-Evans was laying ten to one on the House 
in muffins. But a bit of good luck is capable of making a 
side play in a totally different spirit, and the combined 
Buller’s and Claremont’s side started off like a whirlwind. 
Livingstone kicked off, and the outhouse scrum was on the 
ball in a minute. For a second the House pack was swept 
off its feet, and during that second Fitzgerald had dribbled 
to within ten yards of the line. Foster made a splendid 
effort to stay the rush, and flung himself on the very feet 
of the opposing forwards. But the check was only momen- 
tary; the forwards rolled on, and it was only on the very 
line that Lovelace rushed across, and falling on the ball, 
held it to him, till the House forwards had time to come 
round. But the rules lay down that a player, as soon as he 
has fallen on the ball, must get off it at once. Lovelace 
realised that if he did so, a try would be inevitable. He 
hung on like grim death, praying that the referee would not 
see. Before half the House forwards had formed round, 
the whistle blew. 

“Free kick to the School. You mustn’t lie on the ball 
like that, Lovelace.” The referee was not blind. 

Anxiously the House lined up and waited for the kick. 
Livingstone had converted nearly every goal on the Colts’ 
games the term before. It was a trying moment. He 
seemed to take hours placing the ball correctly. There was 
an absolute hush as he ran up; then a great sigh, half of 
relief, half of disappointment, burst from the touch-line. 
The ball rose hardly six feet from the ground, and sailed 
harmlessly towards the School House line. And then 
Turner made a mistake that he cursed himself for ever 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


135 

afterwards. All that was necessary to do was to let the 
ball bounce, and then touch down. But as the ball sailed 
towards him. Turner was suddenly possessed with the 
longing to do something brilliant. He was last man on the 
list, and had only been put into the side at the last moment, 
owing to another forward stopping out. It was not un- 
natural. He caught the ball. 

“You blasted fool,” yelled out Richards, “for God's sake 
find touch.” 

Turner lost his head. He gave a mild punt down field, 
and before the House had realised what was happening, 
Wilkinson had caught the ball, and dashed over the line 
between the posts. This time Livingstone made no mistake. 

8 - 3 * 

For the next five minutes the House side was entirely 
demoralised. Nothing went right. The forwards did not 
keep together. Gordon cursed foully, and only made 
matters worse. Lovelace's kicks only found touch a few 
feet down the line. Richards rushed up and down fuming, 
and upset everyone. It was due only to a miracle and some 
fine work by Foster that the School did not score at least 
three times. Foster did everything during those awful 
minutes. Rush after rush he stopped, just as Fitzgerald 
was looking dangerous, and he brought down his fly-half 
every time. Gordon was amazed at his performance; he 
had always rather looked down on him before. He had 
never imagined he was so plucky. 

But it takes more than two unexpected tries to throw 
a School House side off its balance for long. Soon the 
forwards began to reassert themselves. Burgess the wing 
three-quarter, a self-satisfied member of Buller's, who was 
in VI. B, and whose conceit far excelled his performances, 
got away and began to look dangerous. But Gordon came 
up behind him. He loathed Burgess, and flinging aside 
all the Fernhurst traditions about collaring low, he leapt 
in the air, and crashed on top of him. Burgess collapsed 
like paper. A great howl went up from the School House. 
New life seemed to enter into the side. The grovel flocked 


136 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

rouncL and Collins, heaving Burgess off the ball with a 
flying kick, dribbled the ball to the half-way line. A scrum 
formed up and from the heel Richards got the ball to Love- 
lace, who broke through the defence and with a clear field 
ahead made for the line. 

“Run like hell!” shouted Simonds from the touch-line. 
He was standing on the masters’ side of the ground, just 
in front of the Chief’s wife. But he was past caring about 
social etiquette. All he wanted was to see the House 
ahead once more. “Faster, man, run — oh, damn !” 

Just on the line the ubiquitous Livingstone caught him 
up, and the pair rolled into touch. If, as some say, 
there is nothing much finer to watch in football than an 
uphill fight, then the Thirds of 1913 was most certainly 
the greatest game ever played on the Lower. Lighter 
and slower than their opponents, the House kept them on 
the defensive for the rest of the afternoon. Collins was 
a splendid sight, his hair fell in a cascade over his eyes, 
his nose was bleeding, his jersey was torn half off his back, 
but he did not care. His feet were everywhere, and anyone 
who got in his light was sorry for it. Turner, with the 
thought that he was the cause of Wilkinson’s try, fought 
heroically. Once when Williamson, a Claremont’s forward, 
began to dribble, he rushed into him sideways and with a 
“soccerbarge” knocked him flying into touch, and took 
the ball back inside the twenty-five. It was a great fight. 
But no one can strive successfully against the will of the 
gods, and certainly the stars in their courses fought against 
the House. Ten minutes before time Livingstone, who had 
been systematically starved the whole game, got a pass 
about the half-way line. He was the fastest man in the 
field. No one could touch him; he made straight for the 
corner flag, and scored amid the tumultuous applause of 
Buller’s. There could be no doubt about the result now. 
Before the eyes of Jones-Evans there rose a prospect of 
eternally treating outhouse men to muffiins. Mansell swore 
violently. “The Bull” walked up and down the touch-line 
beaming with delight. Simonds was silent. 


HEALTHY PHILISTINISM 


137 , 

“Well, you men,” said Richards, “we’ve been beaten, but 
by heaven we’ll shove them the last few minutes. Go for 
them, tooth and nail.” 

The House did so. In hall that night Burgess announced 
that there was not a single gentleman in the School 
House, a remark which resulted in a rather unpleasant 
half-hour with “the Bull” two days later. For these last 
minutes produced one of the most glorious charges of the 
day. From the twenty-five right in to the School half, 
the ball was carried. Nothing could stop that wild rush. 
Livingstone and Wilkinson went down before it, but they 
were passed by. Burgess made a half-hearted attempt 
to fall on the ball, but did not get up for several seconds, 
and the House was well in the School half when Gordon 
kicked a little too hard and the School back, fielding the 
ball, managed to find touch. But the House was still un- 
daunted. From the line out, the ball was flung to Richards, 
who, putting his head down, literally fought his way through 
the scrum and tottered out the other side. He handed otf 
Wilkinson, dodged the fly-half, and made for the centre of 
the ground. Livingstone came across at him. “With you, 
Richards,” yelled Lovelace. 

As Livingstone brought Richards crashing to the ground, 
the ball was safely in Lovelace’s hands. Lovelace was 
about half-way between mid-field and the twenty-five. He 
ran a few yards, steadied himself, and took a drop. 

In deadly silence the School watched the flight of the 
ball. It sailed high and straight towards the goal. “It’s 
over,” murmured the Chief excitedly. But as the ball 
neared the posts it travelled slower, a slight breeze caught 
it, blew it over to the right. It hit the right post and fell 
back into play. As the full-back returned it to mid-field 
the whistle blew for no-side. 

“School, three cheers for the House!” shouted Living- 
stone. 

“House, three cheers for the School 1” responded 
Richards. 

And then everyone poured over the ropes on to the field. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


138 

“Never mind, you men,” said Simonds ; “it was a damned 
fine show and better than fifty wins.” 

The House was proud of its side. As the Fifteen trooped 
across the courts on the way to the changing-room the 
House lined up by the chains of the Sixth Form green, and 
cheered them. 

“Well played, Caruthers!” shouted someone. 

It was Gordon’s first taste of real success. 

That night there was a big feed in No. 19. They were 
all out of training for three days ; and they made the most 
of it. During the last fortnight they had been allowed only 
fruit between meals. 

“It’s the finest performance since I’ve been in the 
House,” Mansell declared. “Meredith’s Two Cock wasn’t 
in it. Their side was twice as strong on paper, and, my 
Lord** we gave it them.” 

“Yes,” said Lovelace, “and you wait till this side is the 
Three Cock; there’ll be a bit of a change then.” 

“You’re right there,” shouted Mansell. “We sha’n’t 
pull it off this year, nor the year after that; but you wait 
and see what’ll happen in 1915. That’s the year when 
the House will revive the great days of Trench. My lads, 
we sha’n’t regret the lean years when the years of plenty 
come; and the Three Cock Cup is back on the old oak 
sideboard. Our day will come.” 

That night Gordon dreamt of the great future that was 
opening out for the House; and he was thankful that he 
should see it. Like the runners in the torch race many 
would have prepared the way for victory; but it was to 
him and his friends that the glory of the final triumph 
would belong. For he would win the race : he would carry 
home the torch. 


CHAPTER X 


TIN GODS 

A FTER this match a new phase in Gordon’s life may be 
said to have begun. He had for the first time felt what 
it was to be really successful. When he had got his Colts’ 
cap the world had seemed at his feet ; but it was nothing to 
what he experienced now. For he had borne the brunt of the 
House’s battle. He had played a principal part in a won- 
derful achievement. The House looked on him as one 
of their chosen defenders. He was in the limelight, and 
he had no intention of ever drifting out of it. When 
we have experienced the really great, the things that 
pleased once charm no more. After basking in the blaze 
of a summer afternoon there is something poignantly 
pathetic in watching the amber beams of a December sun 
filter through the trees. Gordon had his fingers on the 
pedestal of fame, and he intended never to loose his grasp. 
His position had been obtained by brilliant football, and 
if he had been able to retain it in the same way all would 
have been well. But the gods willed it otherwise. 

It was generally admitted that the House stood no 
chance of winning the Two Cock, and when the House 
agreed on its own defeat, prospects were certainly very 
gloomy. So Gordon only interested himself in his own 
performances. He began to wonder if there was any 
chance of his getting a place in the Three Cock. Simonds 
was undoubtedly pleased with him, and Henry, the only 
forward senior to him, had been doing rather badly lately. 
In the trial games he played with a mad enthusiasm. 
On the Friday evening the Two Cock side was posted. He 
was above Lovelace and Richards. Henry was only one 
above him. , 


139 


;i4o THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

Just before lunch on the day of the match Mansell came 
up to him. 

“I say, I have got some good news for you.” 

“What is it?” Gordon was feverish with impatience. 

“Well, I don't think I had better tell you.” 

*‘Oh, I say, do ; don’t be a swine.” 

“No I don’t think I shall; it would make you too bucked 
with life.” Mansell smiled at him kindly. Gordon was 
rather annoyed. 

But on the way down to hall, he overheard Mansell talk- 
ing to Tester in the door of the changing-room. 

“Simonds is going to play Caruthers in the Three Cock 
instead of Henry, if he plays at all decently to-day,” Mansell 
was saying. 

“Oh, I am glad of that,” Tester answered. “He’s a good 
kid.” 

The earth swayed dizzily as Gordon made his way down 
to hall. He did not feel at all nervous. He was quite 
certain of himself. The day was bound to end with him 
a member of the House Fifteen. All he had to do was to 
play his average game. Mansell had said so. 

As he stepped on to the field, he was perfectly aware of 
his own personality. He did not feel a sort of spectator, 
as he had done in the Thirds. It was all so clear. He even 
smiled at Tester as he lined up. 

But a Two Cock is very different from a Thirds. Men 
from Christy’s were playing who were shining lights on 
Senior Leagues, and who would easily have got their 
Seconds if they had tried, but who, because they were in 
Christy’s, did not take the trouble. Christy’s should have 
beaten Buller’s, but they were too slack to go into proper 
training, and in spite of the brilliance of Dyke and Pember- 
ton, Buller’s won by six points after being ten points behind 
at half-time. As individuals, however, Christy’s were a 
formidable lot, and when combined with Buller’s formed a 
much heavier and larger side than any Gordon had ever 
played against before. He was not very large, and was 
used to Junior Leagues. For an hour he was swept clean 


TIN GODS 


141 

off his feet. He could not keep pace at all with the game. 
He was flung from one position into another; he followed 
after the scrum ; he felt like a new boy playing for the first 
time. At half-time Simonds came up thoroughly fed up 
with life. The score was fifteen-nothing. 

“For heaven's sake, Caruthers, get in and shove, if you 
can't do anything better. You haven't done a thing the 
whole game." 

The game was a nightmare. Mansell looked at him curi- 
ously that evening at tea. 

Gordon muttered something about a kick on the head, 
and being unable to see anything. 

On Sunday evening a list of those in training for the 
Three Cock was put up. There were ten forwards down. 
Gordon was bottom on the list; both Henry and Collins 
were above him. In the football world his claim to fame 
for the moment faded away. If he was to remain in the 
public gaze, he would have to attract attention some other 
way. 

And so, at the most critical point in the development 
of his character, Gordon began all unconsciously to seek 
for new ways of making himself conspicious. He did not 
know what he was doing. If someone had told him that 
he was doing absurd things merely to get talked about, he 
would have laughed. But all the same, it would have 
been true. His preparatory schoolmaster said of him 
once: “There is some danger of his becoming the school 
buffoon." At his prep, the boys were too closely looked 
after and kept down for any one person to become pre- 
eminent at anything. And so a subconscious love of no- 
toriety drove Gordon on to play the fool for a whole term 
most damnably. 

It was during the end of the Easter and the whole of the 
summer term that Gordon earned a reputation for reckless 
bravado and disregard of all authority that stuck to him 
through his whole career. Up till now he had done things 
merely because he had wanted to. He followed the inclina- 
tion of the moment, but now it was different. It is pleas- 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


142 

ant to be talked of as a mixture between Don Juan and 
Puck; and Gordon was sufficiently good at games to make 
himself an attractive and not a repulsive figure. The Public 
School boy admires the Meredith type ; he despises the man 
who is no good at games, and who plays fast and loose in 
his house. Gordon was not unpopular, and indeed some 
of his escapades were really funny, as, for instance, when 
he cut through the string of the chapel organ on which 
a weight is attached to show whether the organ is full of 
air or not. The next morning in chapel the choir began but 
the organ was mute. The hymn broke off into a miserable 
wail. The whole service was one silent ripple of merriment. 
Rogers was taking the service, and was quite at sea without 
the help of music. Gordon earned a considerable measure 
of notoriety for the performance. On his way to the tuck 
shop, Ben, the captain of the Fifteen, came up and spoke 
to him. 

“Caruthers, I say, are you the man who made the organ 
mute?” 

“Yes.” 

“By Jove, you are a sportsman.” 

Gordon was thus encouraged to continue on his road of 
buffoonery, and when the summer term came, he found no 
reason to pursue any other course. On the cricket field he 
could not get a run; first he hit wildly, then he began to 
poke; but all without the least success. After a few weeks 
he almost ceased to try, except in House matches. “The 
Bull” got furious. 

“Look here, Caruthers,” he said, “I don’t know if you 
are slack, or merely incompetent. But when I see you 
make fifty against my house in a Junior House match, and 
then play inside half-volleys on the upper, I begin to think 
all you care about is your house. Don’t you care for Fern- 
hurst, boy?” 

Gordon was genuinely worried about this. He admired 
“the Bull” immensely: indeed, “the Bull” was about the 
only person at Femhurst whose opinion he valued at all. 
He made strenuous efforts to get runs, but it was no use. 


TIN GODS 143 

He was clean out of form. His fifty v. Buller’s was his 
only score during the season, but “the Bull” did not know 
this. He thought Caruthers tried for his house and slacked 
with the Colts. The climax was reached during the Milton 
Match. Gordon went in first with Foster. In five minutes 
he and Lovelace and a man from Claremont’s were out 
for four runs. “The Bull” chewed grass in a far corner 
of the field. 

And then, to crown everything, Gordon missed the easiest 
of catches. He caught Lovelace’s eye. It was really rather 
funny. The two of them burst into sudden laughter. 
Lovelace was nearly doubled up. “The Bull” thought they 
were laughing at him. 

“I can’t think what’s gone wrong with Caruthers this 
term,” he said to Fry, the captain of the School House. 
“He was such a jolly good man once; he doesn’t seem to 
be trying this term.” 

Next day Gordon was left out of the Colts’ side. The day 
after the chair in Trundle’s class-room suddenly collapsed. 
The leg had been sawn half through, and Trundle fell over 
on the floor. 

Gordon was riding for a fall, and two days before Com- 
memoration, to use his own phrase, he “fairly put his 
foot in it.” This term he had a double dormitory with one 
Davenport, a scholar who was a year junior to Gordon; 
but was in the same form. The Chief had thought Gordon 
a bit big for the Nursery, but there was no room for him 
down below; so he and Davenport lived at the end of the 
passage in glorious isolation. It was a great luxury; they 
were allowed several privileges; they could keep their light 
on till ten ; they could go to bed when they liked, and it was 
here that they usually did their preparation. Davenport, 
however, suddenly contracted measles; and Gordon, who 
had grown too slack to do his work alone, used to get 
leave for Sydenham, a rather insignificant, self-righteous 
member of V. A, who had come a term before him, to 
come and prepare his work in the double room. Leave 
was always granted, and when Davenport returned, the 


144 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


scheme was still continued. On this particular night, 
Davenport had got a headache. He said he was going to 
stop out next day, and quite refused to prepare Thucydides. 
It also happened that the House tutor was away that night, 
and so the Chief went round the dormitories, putting out 
the lights. He did not know of the custom by which Syden- 
ham came up to do the con. He was not very pleased, but 
after a little hesitation gave leave. The door was shut. 
Sydenham perched himself on the chest of drawers, Gordon 
produced an aid to quick translation, Davenport turned over 
the pages of Nash's. The Abbey bells also happened to 
be ringing that night. It was quite impossible to hear any 
normal sound down the passage ; and so Gordon was quite 
unaware of the Chief's intention to revisit them and see if 
they were really working, till the door opened and the Chief 
walked in. Gordon lost his head; he sat up in bed and 
gaped. Thucydides lay on one side of the bed, the crib 
on the other. 

The Chief picked up the book. 

“Ah, does Mr. Macdonald allow you to use this?” 

In the really dramatic moments of our lives it is always 
the inane that first suggests itself. It was so likely that 
Macdonald would have given them permission. 

“No, sir.” 

“Er, Davenport, are you preparing — er, yes, Thucydides 
with Caruthers, too?” 

“No, sir.” Davenport thanked heaven that he had a head- 
ache. He had helped in the work of deceit every night 
the whole term. The Chief thought he must be a boy of 
strong moral courage ; and in many ways he was, but crib- 
bing, after all, was part of the daily routine. 

The Chief took up the book. 

“Sydenham, go back to your study.” 

He turned down the light and went out. His footsteps 
died out down the passage. 

“Damn!” said Gordon. 

“In excelsis gloria,” said Davenport. 

“And it was a rotten crib, too,” said Gordon. 


TIN GODS 


145 


By next morning the story was all round the school. 

“You will be birched for certain,” was Tester’s cheerful 
comment, “and serve you right for getting caught.” 

“I sha’n’t be such a fool again,” growled Caruthers. 

And certainly he profited by his experience. A year 
later the House Tutor came into his study when he was 
preparing Vergil with the aid of Dr. Giles’ text. He put 
a piece of blotting-paper over the crib, and chatted for a 
few minutes quite easily about the chances of the Eleven 
v. Tonford. 

But when we are in trouble, there are few of us who can 
see so far ahead as to feel thankful at the thought that we 
have learnt something that will be a help to us in the 
future. Gordon was thoroughly fed up. But it was not 
his game to show his feelings. He went about laughing 
as though nothing had happened at all ; he treated the whole 
thing as a colossal joke. Sydenham was, however, very 
nervous, and showed it. Gordon ragged him mercilessly. 

“My good man, what the hell does it matter? Chief’s 
not much of a bircher, and don’t gas about disgrace, and 
such muck. This isn’t a St. Winifred’s sort of school. It 
will only mean a bad report.” 

In School that day Gordon was in great form. By the 
end of the morning he had accumulated in all three hundred 
lines from various sources for ragging. 

“That man, Caruthers, is some fellow,” said Ferguson 
to Simonds at lunch. “He looks as if he enjoyed being 
in rows.” 

“Perhaps he does,” was the answer. “He is certainly 
always doing his best to get into them. But he is in for a 
birching this time.” 

But Simonds was wrong. The Chief was too utterly fed 
up to do anything; moreover, he saw that a birching would 
do Gordon no good. He would only boast about it. 

It was not until a week after that Gordon was called up 
before the Chief. 

“Caruthers, I want to know where you got hold of that 
crib.” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


146 

As a matter of fact he had obtained it by means of Rudd, 
who had a large stock of such articles, and let them out on 
loan for the term. It was a paying business. Gordon, of 
course, could not divulge this. 

“I got it in the holidays, sir.” 

The Chief was surprised and shocked at this. He could 
quite easily understand that a boy should buy a crib at 
some second-hand bookshop in the town, during term time, 
when surrounded with the general atmosphere of Public 
School dishonesty; but it did seem unnatural that a boy, 
while living in the clean surroundings of his home, should be 
scheming to cheat his fellows and masters. The Chief said 
as much : Gordon did not quite follow him. Besides, every- 
one cribbed. 

“What I can't understand, Caruthers,” the Chief went 
on, .“is that you always assume a tremendous keenness on 
the School and House, which you give absolutely no proof 
of in your actions except on the field. This is the second 
time I have had to speak to you on this subject. Do you 
imagine that the good reputation of the House depends 
solely on its performance in the Thirds, or that of the 
School on its number of victories in School matches ?” 

Gordon certainly thought it did. But he thought that 
“Yes” was hardly the answer the Chief expected. He held 
his peace. It was no use arguing the subject. 

When he came out of the study, he met Rudd palpitating 
with funk. 

“I say, you didn't say anything about my lending you 
that crib, did you?” Rudd was very frightened of the 
Chief. 

“Of course not, you bloody-looking fool. The best thing 
you can do is to go and get me a better crib with all possible 
speed, my friend. And mind it's a decent one. The last 
one was rotten; and I can't do without one. I was bottled 
yesterday.” 

In three days Rudd’s agent from town had procured him 
a fine edition of the Sicilian expedition. Davenport and 


TIN GODS 147 

Gordon did some superb construe during the remainder of 
the term. 

It is, of course, very easy to run down any existing 
system; and the Public School system has come in for its 
fair share of abuse. Yet it must be remembered that no 
one has yet been able to devise a better. And after all, 
for the average man it is not such a bad training. It is 
inclined to destroy individuality, to turn out a fixed pattern ; 
it wishes to take everyone, no matter what his tastes or 
ideas may be, and make him conform to its own ideals. 
In the process, much good is destroyed, for the Public 
School man is slack, easy-going, tolerant, is not easily upset 
by scruples, laughs at good things, smiles at bad, yet he 
is a fine follower. He has learnt to do what he is told; 
he takes life as he sees it and is content. So far so good. 
With the average individual the system is not so very un- 
satisfactory. 

But take the case of the boy who has it in him to 
be a leader, who is not merely content to follow, but wishes 
to be at the head, in the forefront of the battle. What of 
him? Gordon went to Fernhurst with the determination 
to excel and at once was brought face to face with the 
fact that success lay in a blind worship at the shrine of 
the god of Athleticism. Honesty, virtue, moral determina- 
tion — these mattered not at all. The author of Eric and 
such others who have never faced, really faced, life and 
seen what it is, talk of the incalculable good one boy can 
do, who refuses to be led astray by temptations, and re- 
mains true to the ideals he learnt in the nursery. If there 
does come into any school such a boy, he is merely labelled 
as “pi,” and is taken no notice of. He who wishes to get 
to the front has to strive after success on the field, and 
success on the field alone. This is the way that the future 
leaders of England are being trained to take their proper 
place in the national struggle for a right and far-sighted 
civilisation. On this alone the system stands condemned. 
For the history of a nation is the history of its great men, 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


148 

and the one object of the Public School is to produce not 
great men, but a satisfactory type. 

Gordon found that, as soon as he was recognised as a 
coming athlete, popularity was his, and that on the strength 
of his physical abilities he could do pretty well what he 
liked. For there is no strong feeling in schools on the 
subject of honesty and morality. And it is not unnatural 
that a boy, finding that no one will object if he follows the 
call of pleasure, drifts with the stream. And then Gordon 
went off suddenly at games, as the best athlete must at 
some time or other. Like many others, he loved popularity 
and fame. So, in order to keep in the limelight, he flung 
aside all pretences of conscience, and got the reputation of 
being “the devil of a sport” — a reputation that is a pass- 
port to Public School society, but is damning to any man’s 
character. Only a few realise this. Betteridge was one. 
He was not an athlete, but was clever and in the Sixth. 
He enjoyed a rag, but saw the difference between liberty 
and licence. He was a freethinker, and saw life with a 
wide vision that embraced the whole horizon. 

“Look here, Caruthers,” he said one evening, during hall, 
in the last half of the summer term, “I don’t want to say 
anything; but you know you are making a most awful ass 
of yourself.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know quite well what I mean. I don’t think it’s 
your fault; it is the fault of this rotten system under which 
we live. You are not what you were when you first came. 
Of course, it is natural to crib and fool about, but you are 
going a bit far. One day you will be captain of this House. 
You’ll be sorry then.” 

“Oh, don’t be a damned ass, Betteridge, preaching to 
me. I know what I am doing. It’s not long that I shall 
have to enjoy myself. I shall be in the Sixth soon, and 
shall have to slow down then. But at present I shall do 
damned well what I like. After all, what does it matter 
if I do rot all day and muck about generally? It makes 


TIN GODS 


149 

no difference to you or the House. It’s my own damned 
business, and besides, everyone else does it l” 

It was useless to reason with him. The argument that 
“others do it” is impossible to combat. And, after all, 
environment is what counts, and it is a fairly dangerous 
environment with which to surround any but the average 
sensual being who eats, drinks, laughs and is merry, and 
never thinks at all. And yet masters are surprised when 
they find the big man whom they thought impregnable 
following the accepted customs. They say : “What a pity ! 
A fine fellow gone to the dogs, and after all we’ve done for 
him, too !” And yet whose fault is it ? 

But this is by the wayside. For better or for worse the 
character of Gordon Caruthers was developing on its own 
lines. Criticism should be withheld till the last threads 
are woven, and we can judge of the complex whole. 

The summer term was drawing to a close. It had not 
been very successful as far as Gordon was concerned. His 
cricket had frankly been a failure, and the prominence he 
had gained in his House hardly compensated for the mis- 
givings with which the Chief and Buller regarded his future. 
It seemed as if he could not help running up against “the 
Bull.” 

A-K was knocked out of the Senior House competition 
at once. They drew Christy’s and were beaten by an 
innings. Gordon made eleven and fifteen, and was missed 
three times while making them. Foster, however, got a 
very sturdy thirty-three not out, and took three wickets. 
He got his House cap. Gordon was furious, and swore that 
he was jolly well not going to try any more that term. 

During the final senior he was strolling round the field 
with Tester, both of them in cloth suits, unchanged for 
games. “The Bull” came up behind them. 

“Caruthers, why aren’t you changed this afternoon?” 

“Well, sir, we only had a House game this afternoon, so 
Tester and I got leave off to watch the match.” 

“But your House is not playing in it,” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


150 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, then, what on earth do you mean by slacking 
about the field like this? It’s your duty to be training 
yourself too, so that some day you may be of some use to 
Fernhurst, and here are you slacking about, instead of 
asking the pro. to give you a net. Slackness! filthy slack- 
ness! I don't know what’s wrong with you this term; 
you were quite keen once.” 

He strolled off, scratching the back of his head. “The 
Bull” always did this when in a bad temper. 

“Poor old chap,” murmured Tester, “he takes these little 
things so much to heart. He loathes me because I don’t 
sweat myself to death all day at the nets. He never said 
anything to me; he has given me up as a bad job. Poor 
old chap!” 

“Well, I suppose we ought to have been at the nets,” 
said Gordon. 

“If we did everything that we ought to do in this world, 
we should never have a moment’s time to do the things 
we liked.” 

“I suppose so,” said Gordon, “but still, you know — 
oh, well, what the hell does it matter? By Jove, well hit, 
Dyke!” 

The conversation turned again to the match. 

Next term Gordon had arranged to have a study with 
Lovelace. Tester was going to be a prefect, and wanted 
the big upstairs study that Clarke had had to himself. 
Gordon was staying in No. 1. 

He was not sorry. He did not quite understand Tester; 
he was too clever, and Gordon never knew exactly what he 
was driving at. Lovelace, on the other hand, was his best 
friend; they had played together in several sides, and next 
term Lovelace would captain the footer Colts. The future 
seemed very roseate. Moreover, he was certain to get into 
the Sixth, and that meant many privileges. He did not 
have to attend rolls, he could be late for tea, there was no 
need for him to get leave to speak to anyone in hall. It 
meant many study hours, and it would also bring him into 


TIN GODS 


151 

contact with the Olympians. There was Carter, who had 
been in the Sixth four terms, and was in the Second Fifteen. 
He would meet Betteridge. There was Rudd to rag. 
Prothero had reduced his time-table to one hour in school 
a day, and was an authority to consult on any subject 
regarding avoiding work. Davenport would be promoted, 
too. Gordon’s day of power was beginning to dawn. Next 
term he would be distinctly a House blood. It was a 
ravishing thought. 

One evening in exam, week Hunter announced casually 
after tea: “I say, do you remember Betteridge talking 
once about a man called Ferrers? Well, he is coming here 
as a master next term.” 

“Oh, Lord, is he really?” said Fletcher. “I suppose 
he will be full of rotten new theories, and he will probably 
want to make us work.” 

“Well, I always give a master a good fortnight’s trial 
before I do any work for him,” said Tester; “at the end of 
that, I usually find his keenness has worn off. I bet he 
will be the same as all the rest.” 

“I doubt it,” said Betteridge ; “he is a man.” 

“Well, whatever he is, he is going to have no effect on 
me,” said Gordon, with a finality that quite closed the 
question. 


CHAPTER XI 


THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 

A S often as not, it is mere chance that provides the most 
essentially important moments in our lives. It is easy 
to talk of the inevitable march of Fate, but more usually a 
chance word or look alters our entire outlook on life. And 
so it was that the course of Gordon’s whole career was 
suddenly changed into a different channel, at a moment 
when he was drifting placidly on the stream of a lax con- 
ventionality, and was frittering away all his opportunities 
for sheer lack of anything that would spur him on to a 
clearer conception of what life means. 

During the whole of the term, Tester and Gordon had 
done their early morning preparation on the V. A green. As 
soon as they had answered their names at roll, they would 
take out deck-chairs and cushions and luxuriously pass the 
three quarters of an hour before breakfast reclining back, 
putting the finishing touches to the evening’s work. It 
is a very beautiful spot, the V. A green. On three sides it is 
flanked with buildings; on the fourth is a low wall, which 
is used as an exit for nocturnal expeditions. It was under 
the V. A class-room that Gordon and Tester always put 
their chairs. Opposite them was the grey library; beyond 
rose the Abbey, solemn and austere; on the left was the 
chapel and the long cloiser leading to the big school. In 
the early morning a great hush pervaded the place. The 
only sound was the faint tolling of the Almshouse bell. Be- 
tween the Abbey and the library the sun rose in a blaze of 
glory. 

On the last morning of the term Gordon and Tester lolled 
back in their comfortable chairs. Gordon was trying to 

152 


THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 


153 

learn his rep. for the exam, that morning. Tester was 
reading The Oxford Book of English Verse; the exams for 
the Sixth were over. 

“Oh, damn this,” said Gordon. “I can’t learn the stuff.” 

He flung the book down, and lay back watching the first 
rays of the sun flicker on the cold bronze of the Abbey. 

“This has been a rotten term, you know,” he said at 
last. 

“Yes?” said Tester. He was engrossed in poetry. 

“Well, I got into the deuce of a row with Chief, and 
I never got my House cap, and I’ve broken it off with 
Jackson.” 

Tester put down his book and sat up. 

“Caruthers, you know you are wasting your time. Here 
are you with all your brilliance and your personality worry- 
ing only about House caps and petty intrigues, and little 
things like that. What you want to realise is that there 
is something beyond the aim of a Fernhurst career. You 
are clever enough; but poetry and art mean nothing to 
you.” 

“Oh, poetry, that’s all right for Claremont and asses like 
that, but what’s the use of it?” 

“Oh, use, use! Nothing but this eternal cry about the 
use of a thing. Poetry is the sort of beacon-light of man. 
What’s wrong with you is that you’ve read the wrong stuff. 
It is all very well for a middle-aged man to worship Words- 
worth and calm philosophy. But youth wants colour, life, 
passion, the poetry of revolt. Now look here, let me read 
you this, and then tell me what you think of it.” 

“Oh, all right. Is it long?” 

“No, not very.” 

In a low, clear voice, Tester began to read the great 
spring Chorus in Atalanta, into which Swinburne has 
crowded all that he ever knew of joy and happiness. In 
everyone there lies the love of beauty — “we needs must 
love the highest when we see it” — but the pity is that so 
few of us are ever brought face to face with the really 
lovely, or perhaps, if we are, we come to it too late. Our 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


154 

power of appreciation has lain too long dormant ever to be 
aroused. And at school it is the common thing for boys 
to pass through their six years* traffic without ever realis- 
ing what beauty is. They are told to read Vergil, Tennyson 
and Browning, the philosophers, the comforters of old age, 
poets who “had for weary feet the gift of rest/* But 
boys never hear of Byron, Swinburne and Rossetti, men 
with big flaming hearts that cried for physical beauty and 
the loveliness of tangible things. As a result they drift 
out into the world, to take their place with the dull, common- 
place Philistine who has made the House of Commons what 
it is. 

But as Gordon heard Tester reading the wonderful riot 
of melody, which conjures up visions of rainbows, and far- 
receding sunsets, of dew gleaming like crystals in the 
morning, of water gliding like forgotten songs, a strange 
peace descended on him. He had not known that there 
could be anything so intensely beautiful. Over the great 
Abbey the sun was rising heavenwards; down the street 
past the Almshouses he heard the happy sound of a young 
girl laughing. The world was full of strange new things ; 
there was a new meaning in the song of the blackbird, in 
the rustle of the leaves, in the whispering of the warm wind. 
And suddenly there came over him a sensation of how far 
he himself was below the splendour of it all. He had 
walked through life with blinded eyes; with dulled senses 
he had stared at the ground, while all the time the great 
ideal of beauty was shining from the blue mountains of 
man’s desire. 

Tester had finished reading. 

“Well, what do you think of it?” 

“Oh, it’s wonderful. I never dreamt of such music.” 

“Yes, you see, masters grow old ; they forget what it was 
like to be young ; they want us to look at life through their 
spectacles, and, of course, we can’t. Youth and age is 
an impossible combination ; we have to cut a way for our- 
selves, Caruthers ; sometimes we fail, sometimes we succeed. 
I’ve made a pretty fair mess of things, because I have gone 


THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 155 

on my own way; because I have had no one to guide me. 
I found little consolation in mature thought, and I am 
not one of the fools who has just taken things for granted; 
I strike out by myself. I want to find what beauty really 
is, and I shall find it by sifting out everything first. I 
have probed a good many things one way and another, 
some ugly, some beautiful. I have followed the course 
of Nature. After all, Nature is more likely to be right 
than an artificial civilisation. I follow where my in- 
clinations lead me. I hate laws and regulations. As 
Fve often said, I did not ask to come into this world, so I 
shall do as I please, and I think that I shall reach home all 
right in the end. Literature is a great sign-post !” 

‘‘Yes,” said Gordon simply. “I never imagined it before. 
Who wrote that, by the way?” 

“Swinebume, the great pagan who was sick of the sham 
and pretence of his day, and cried for the glories of Rome. 
Look here, Caruthers, come down to Gisson’s afterwards, 
and as a memento of our year together in Study 1, just let 
me give you Swinburne's Poems and Ballads. It’s great 
stuff; you'll like it, and you’ll find there something a bit 
better than your caps and pots.” 

Gordon did not answer. The sun had now risen high 
above the Abbey. Across the silence was wafted the 
cracked notes of the School House bell; there was a rush 
of feet from the studies. For a few minutes Gordon lay 
back in his chair quite quiet. A new day had broken on 
his life. The future opened out with wide promises, with 
possibilities of great things. For he had heard at last the 
call which, if ever a man hears it, he casts away the nets 
and follows after — the call of beauty — “which is, after all, 
only truth, seen from another side.” 















BOOK III.— UNRAVELLING THE 
THREADS 


. . . and drank delight of battle with my peers.” 

Tennyson. 


“Yet would you tread again 
All the road over? 

Face the old joy and pain — 

Hemlock and clover? 

Yes. For it still was good, 

Good to be living, 

Buoyant of heart and blood; 

Fighting, forgiving.” 

Austin Dobson. 

“Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard.” 

Lindsay Gordon. 




CHAPTER XII 


COMMON ROOM FACES 

M IRACLES do not happen, nor do sudden conversions. 

Man very rarely changes. What he is at the begin- 
ning, he is at the end; all that occurs is that at various 
stages of his journey he looks at life from a different point 
of view, or rather through a different pair of spectacles, 
for never on this earth do we really see things as they are. 
When Gordon found new influences at work upon him, when 
he discovered through literature that there is something 
higher than the ignoble monotony of the average individual 
routine, he did not suddenly change his whole way of life, 
and, “like a swimmer into cleanness leaping,” put out of 
sight behind him the things that had pleased him once. 
Right and wrong are merely relative terms. What was 
considered right in the days of Caesar spells social ostracism 
to-day. And there are a few who prefer to see life as the 
Romans saw it, and to follow the ideals of power and physi- 
cal beauty. For such life is not easy. Yet we are not so 
much better than “when Caesar Augustus was Egypt’s 
Lord!” The question of what is really right and what is 
really wrong will never be satisfactorily decided, on this 
earth at any rate, for we cannot all wear the same spectacles 
for long. Temperament is all-powerful. 

And Gordon made no attempt to settle the question. He 
did not suddenly feel a loathing for his former pleasures, 
but during the long summer holidays, as he bathed in the 
waters of English poetry, it seemed to him as if he had 
outgrown them, and cast them aside. Perhaps in the 
future they might momentarily appear beautiful once more, 
but he did not think that he would ever again wear them 

159 


160 THE loom of youth 

for very long, for they were, after all, little, insignificant, 
trivial, and contrasted poorly with the white heat of Byron’s 
passion, and the flaming ardour of Swinburne, that cried 
for “the old kingdoms of earth and their kings.” Tester 
had been right ; he had wasted himself ; he had been blinded 
by the drab atmosphere of Public School life. And as he 
read on, while the summer sun sank in a red sea behind 
the gaunt Hampstead firs, read of the proud, domineering 
soul of Manfred, visualised the burst of passion that had 
prompted the murder in The Last Confession, felt the 
thundering paganism of the Hymn to Proserpine, he was 
overcome with a tremendous hatred for the system that had 
kept literature from him as a shut book, that had offered 
him mature philosophy instead of colour and youth, and that 
tried to prevent him from seeking it for himself. So this is 
the way, he thought, the youth of England is being brought 
up. Masters tell us to fix all our energies on achieving 
school successes, and think of calf-bound prizes and tasselled 
caps all day long. No wonder that, if they bind us down 
to trivial things, we become like the Man with the Muck- 
Rake, and drift on with low aims, with nothing to help us 
to live differently from cattle. No wonder the whole com- 
mon room is repeatedly shocked by the discovery of some 
sordid scandal. What a system, what an education! 

Gordon’s soul was very arrogant and very intolerant, 
and it was rather unfortunate that, at a time when he was 
bubbling over with rebellion, Arnold Lunn’s book, The 
Harrovians, should have been published. This book, as no 
other book has done, photographs the life of a Public School 
boy stripped of all sentiment, crude and raw, and is, of its 
kind, the finest school story written. It may have many 
artistic blunders ; it may be shapeless and disconnected, but 
it is true to life in every detail ; and Gordon was not likely 
at this time to be conscious of technical mistakes. Of 
course, a storm of adverse criticism broke out at once. Old 
Harrovians wrote to the papers, saying that they had been 
at Harrow for six years, and that the conversation was, 
except in a few ignoble exceptions, pure and manly, and 


COMMON ROOM FACES 161 

that the general atmosphere was one of clean, healthy broad- 
mindedness. Gordon fumed. What fools all these people 
were ! When they were told the truth, they would not be- 
lieve it. Prophets must prophesy smooth things, or else 
were not prophets. How was there ever going to be any 
hope of improvement till the true state of affairs was un- 
derstood ? 

And then a sudden doubt came to Gordon. What if these 
old Harrovians were right? What if Mr. Lunn had de- 
picted the life of the exceptional, not of the average boy? 
What then of Fernhurst? He had judged the book by his 
own experiences. Was it possible that his school was 
worse than other schools, and what was usual there, would 
be exceptional in Harrow and Eton and Winchester? And 
he had been so proud of Fernhurst, with its grey cloisters 
and dreaming Abbey, with its magnificent Fifteen and 
fine boxers. He had cursed at the Public School system 
because he thought it had done harm to Fernhurst. What 
if Fernhurst and not the system were at fault? For sev- 
eral days the idea made him wretched. 

One evening, however, during the last week of the holi- 
days, a Mr. Ainslie came to dinner. He had been a con- 
temporary of Lunn’s at Harrow, and had himself been head 
of his house for two years. The conversation had drifted 
to a discussion of recent books: The Woman Thou Gavest 
Me , Sinister Street, The Devil's Garden, Round the 
Corner. 

“By the way, Gordon,” said Ainslie, “read that book. 
The Harrovians f” 

“Oh yes, sir.” 

“What did you think of it?” 

“I liked it very much — thought it was the finest school 
story I had ever read.” Gordon felt rather nervous. He 
was aware that he was on thin ice, and timidly blurted out : 
“But, sir, was it true to Harrow life?” 

“Absolutely; and it’s as true to the life of any other 
Public School. They are all much the same, you know, 
at the root.” 


162 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


An immense weight was lifted from Gordon's mind. 

“I thought so, sir, but such a lot of fellows wrote to 
the papers saying it was all rot, and I began to wonder 
if ” 

“My dear Gordon, don’t you make any mistake about it. 
Lunn knows what he is talking about. But you see Public 
School men are most priceless Philistines. They never 
think. They just kick a ball about, hit a four or so past 
cover, and then pass by, shrouding their school life in a mist 
of maudlin sentimentality; and so they forget what they 
really did. All they remember is how they ragged the 
“stinks” master, and pulled off the Senior cricket cup. 
Why, when that new house master — oh, what’s his name, 
Lee ? Well, at any rate, when he came to Lunn’s house he 
was slowly getting rid of undesirables for terms, actually 
for terms. Cayley was not the only one who had to go, and, 
of course, no one thought of anything but games. I got 
a schol. there from my prep., and I literally had to live 
it down. It took me some time, too. We want a good 
deal of improvement in this rusty old system.” 

So after all it was the system that was at fault, not 
Fernhurst. . . . Fairly contentedly he went back by the 
three-thirty from Waterloo; but as he saw the evening 
sun steeping the gravel courts in shadows, and watched 
the fairy lights flickering behind the study panes, it came 
home to him with a poignant vividness that Fernhurst, 
which should have been a home of dreams, innocence and 
beauty, had, by the inefficiency of a vacillating system, be- 
come immersed in petty intrigues, and was filled with a 
generation that was being taught to blind itself to the higher 
issues of life. From his innermost being he cursed at the 
narrow-mindedness of the masters who had helped to pro- 
duce such a result. 

But in a moment almost he was caught up in the tear and 
bustle of an opening term. There was the rush to the 
notice-board to see what dormitory he was in, who were the 
prefects; then the hurried interview with Chief, and the 
inevitable Health certificate. The meeting of the eight-ten 


COMMON ROOM FACES 163 

from Exeter; prayers; the arrival of the last train; and 
finally sleep. The hold of tradition is very strong; in a 
few moments Gordon had flung aside his doubts and 
scruples. Arm-in-arm with Collins he rolled down to the 
day-room to look at the new boys. There were twelve of 
them in all, very frightened, very timid, huddled round the 
day-room fire, wondering what was before them. 

“Well, Caruthers, what do you think of that lot?” said 
Collins, as they swaggered back again to the studies. 

“Oh, not much ; that fellow second from the left was not 
bad. What’s his name, oh yes, Morcombe. Believe me, 
he is some stuff.” 

“Oh, I thought him rather a washed-out specimen, but, 
I say, that fat fellow looks rather a sport. You know, the 
man like a dormouse.” 

“Oh yes, that podgy lad. Morgan, he is Welsh, I know 
about him. He was captain of the prep, last year at foot- 
ball — not a bad forward, I believe. Oh, but there’s Love- 
lace — Lovelace.” 

“Hullo, Caruthers.” 

In a huge brown coat, Lovelace charged across from the 
porter’s lodge. “Had any cricket? What price Middlesex 
— below Hants, rotten county — you should watch Leicester 
now.” 

“Oh, dry up, Middlesex has had bad luck this year.” 
The defeat at Lord’s by Worcester and Kent in the same 
week was rather a sore point with Gordon. 

“Oh, did they? I call them rotten players. But, look 
here, who are pres?” 

“Oh, Tester, Betteridge, Clarke, Mansell, all the whole 
crowd.” 

“Good God, 'some’ pres! Wait a sec. for me. I am 
only going to see Chief for a second. I am going to get 
confirmed, I think. I heard you get off some work for it. 
Half a sec.” 

Back to the old life again. Nothing was changed. The 
same talk, the same interests, all the old things the same. 
Only he was altered. He felt as if he wanted to stand on 


1 64 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

the Abbey tower, and shout aloud that the School was wast- 
ing its opportunities, and was struggling blindly in the 
dark, following will-o’-the-wisps. And yet, for all that, he 
would not have Lovelace or Mansell or any other of his 
friends the least bit different. He did not quite know what 
he wanted. It was better to let them go on as they were. 
As it had been, it would be. He could not do much, and 
at the moment he decided that, whatever he might think or 
feel, he would outwardly remain the same. The world was 
not going to look at his soul. He would go on as he had 
begun, putting things behind him as he outgrew them, and 
as they appeared childish to him. Only a very few should 
ever see him as he really was. The rest would not under- 
stand him, they would think him strange, unnatural; and 
he did not want that. 

The first few days went by in a whirl of excitement. The 
entrance of Ferrers, the new master, into the placid Fern- 
hurst atmosphere caused a bit of a commotion. The school 
first saw him walking across the courts after the masters’ 
meeting on the first day of term. Hjis walk was a roll; 
he talked at the top of his voice, his left arm sustained a 
pile of books ; his right arm gesticulated wildly. 

“Good Gawd,” said Tester, “what a bounder.” 

“Do you think so? I think he is the sort of man to 
wake up the school,” said Better idge. | 

“Perhaps,” said Foster; “but it is rather like applying a 
stomach-pump to a man who is only fit for a small dose of 
Eno’s Fruit Salt.” 

“Well,” said Betteridge, “nous verrons” 

And in the bustle of a new term Ferrers was soon for- 
gotten. 

Gordon was in the Sixth, and its privileges were indeed 
sweet. He felt very proud as he sat in the same room with 
Harding, a double-first, and head of the House, and with 
Hazelton, the captain of the House. Though it was an 
ordeal to go on to “con” before them, it was very magnifi- 
cent to roll down to the football field just before the game 
began without attending roll. 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


165 

“I say, Caruthers," Lovelace would yell across the chang- 
ing-room, “do buck up; it’s nearly twenty-five to three, 
and roll is at a quarter to. ,, 

“I don't go to roll," came the lordly answer. 

And he felt the eyes of admiring juniors fixed on him. 
It was sheer joy, too, to wear the blue ribbon of the Sixth 
Form and to carry a walking-stick; to stroll into shops 
that were to the rest of the school out of bounds ; to go to 
the armoury and the gym. after tea without a pass. But 
it was in hall that the new position meant most. 

While the rest of the house had to stay in their studies 
and make some pretence of work, he would wander in- 
dolently down the passage and pay calls. When he paused 
outside a study he heard the invariable sound of a novel 
flying into the waste-paper basket, of a paper being shoved 
under the table, or a cake being relegated to the window- 
seat. Then he came in. 

A curse always greeted him. 

“Oh, damn you, Caruthers, I thought it was a prefect. 
Foster, hoist out that cake; we were just having a meal." 

He now had the freedom of the studies that had before 
been to him as holy places. Where once Clarke had dealt 
out justice with a heavy hand, Tester and he sat before the 
fire discussing books and life. In the games study, where 
once he had trembled before the rage of Lovelace major, 
he sat with Carter in hall preparing Thucydides. Steps 
would sound down the passage, a knock on the door. 

“Come in," bawled Carter. 

“Please, Carter, may I speak to Smith ?" a nervous voice 
would say. No one could talk without leave from a prefect 
during hall. 

“Yes; and shut the outer door," Carter answered, with- 
out looking round. The prefectorial dignity seemed in a 
way to descend on Gordon; just then life was very good. 
But there were times when he would feel an uncontrollable 
impatience with the regime under which he lived. One 
of these was on the second Sunday of term. It was Rogers' 
turn to preach, and, as always, Gordon prepared himself 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


1 66 

for a twenty minutes’ sleep till the outburst of egoistic rhe- 
toric was spent. But this time, about half-way through, a 
few phrases floated through his mist of dreams that caught 
his attention. Rogers was talking about the impending con- 
firmation service. With one hand on the lectern and the 
other brandishing his pince-nez, as was his custom when 
he intended to be more than usually impressive, he began 
the really vital part of the sermon. 

“In the holidays there appeared, as, I am sorry to say, 
I expect some of you saw, a book pretending to deal with 
life at one of our largest Public Schools. I say pretending, 
because the book contains hardly a word of truth. The 
writer says that the boys are callous about religious ques- 
tions and discuss matters which only grown-up people 
should mention in the privacy of their own studies, and still 
more serious, the purport of the book was to attack not 
only the boys but even the masters who so nobly endeavour 
to inculcate living ideas of purity and Christianity. I am 
only too well aware when I look round this chapel to-night 
— this chapel made sacred by so many memories — that 
nearly every word of that accusation is false. Yet perhaps 
there are times — in our mirth, shall we say ? — when we are 
engaged in sport, or genial merriment, that we are inclined 
to treat sacred matters not with quite that reverence that 
we ought. Perhaps ” 

Rogers prosed on, epithet followed epithet, egotism and 
arrogance vied with one another for predominance. The 
school lolled back in the oak seats and dreamt of house 
matches, rags, impositions, impending rows. At last the 
Chief gave out the final hymn. Into the cloisters the 
school poured out, hustling, shouting, a stream of shadows. 
Contentedly Rogers went back to his house, ate a large 
meal, and addressed a little homily to the confirmation 
candidates in his house on the virtues of sincerity. 

“What a pitiable state of mind old ‘Bogus’ must be in,” 
sighed Tester, when the scurry of feet along the passage had 
died down into a sort of quietness, and he and Gordon 
were sitting in front of a typically huge School House fire. 


COMMON ROOM FACES 167 

“I don’t think I should call it a mind at all,” muttered 
Gordon, who was quite furious about the whole affair. 
“The man’s an utter fool. When he is told the truth he 
won’t believe it, but just stands there in the pulpit rambling 
on, airing his rotten opinions. Good God, and that’s the 
sort of man who is supposed to be moulding the coming 
generation. Oh, it’s sickening.” 

“Well, my good boy, what more can you expect? The 
really brilliant men don’t take up schoolmastering; it is 
the worst paid profession there is. Look at it, a man with 
a double-first at Oxford comes down to a place like Fern- 
hurst and sweats his guts out day and night for two hun- 
dred pounds a year. Of course, the big men try for better 
things. Rogers is just the sort of fool who would be a 
schoolmaster. He has got no brain, no intellect, he loves 
jawing, and nothing could be more suitable for him than 
the Third Form, the pulpit, and a commission in the O.T.C. 
But perhaps he may have a few merits. I have not found 
any yet.” 

“Nor I. But, you know, some good men take up school- 
mastering.” 

“Oh, of course they do. There is the Chief, for in- 
stance, a brilliant scholar and the authority on Coleridge. 
But he is an exception ; and besides, he did not stop an as- 
sistant master long; he got a headmastership pretty soon. 
Chief is a splendid fellow. But I am talking of the aver- 
age man. Just look at our staff: a more fatuous set of 
fools I never struck. All in a groove, all worshipping the 
same rotten tin gods. I am always repeating myself, but 
I can’t help it. Damn them all, I say, they’ve mucked up 
my life pretty well; not one of them has tried to help me. 
They just sit round the common room fire and gas. Bet- 
teridge swears Ferrers is a wonderful man; personally, I 
think he is an unmitigated nuisance. But at any rate, he 
is the only man who ever thinks for himself. Oh, what 
fools they all are.” 

For the rest of the evening Gordon and Tester cursed 
and swore at everyone and everything, and on the whole 


1 68 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


felt better for having got it off their chests. At any rate, 
next day Gordon was plotting a rag on an enormous scale 
with Archie Fletcher; and in a House game assisted in the 
severe routing of Rogers’ house by seventy-eight points 
to nil. It takes a good deal to upset a boy of fifteen for 
very long. And the long evenings were a supreme happi- 
ness. 

It must be owned that during hall Lovelace was rather 
unsociable. It was not that he studied Greek or Latin ; for 
scholastic triumphs he had a healthy contempt. But horse- 
racing was the real interest of his life. “This is my work,” 
he used to scoff, brandishing The Sportsman in Gordon’s 
face. “I am not going to be a classic scholar, and I sha’n’t 
discover any new element, or such stuff as that. I am 
going on the turf. This is my work.” 

For an hour every evening he laboured per sever ingly at 
“his work” with form books, The Sportsman, and huge ac- 
count books. For every single race he chose the runners, 
and laid imaginary bets; and each night he made out how 
much he had lost or made. And it must be confessed that 
if he had really laid money on the horses, he would most 
certainly have done a good term’s work. For by Christ- 
mas he was one hundred and seventeen pounds up. This 
pursuit, of course, rather militated against his activities in 
the class-room; but, as he said, “It was only Claremont, 
the old Methuselah — and they had a damned good crib.” 
Lovelace did his work from seven to eight, and during 
this time Caruthers, who seemed to be in the happy condi- 
tion of never having any work to do at all, wandered round 
the studies. And during his peregrinations many who had 
been to him before merely units in a vast organisation de- 
tached themselves from the rest, and became to him living 
characters; and especially was this so with Foster. He 
had played with Foster for two years in the Colts and in 
A-K sides, but there had never been anything in common 
between them; their interests had been far apart; neither 
stood for anything to the other. But now, when Gordon 


COMMON ROOM FACES 169 

found himself frequently dropping into Foster’s study for 
half-an-hour or so, he realised how many qualities Foster 
had. He was strong-willed, obstinate almost, quite regard- 
less of tradition, in his own way slightly a rebel, and a past 
master in the art of deceiving masters. There are two ways 
1 of making a master look a fool: one is by introducing pro- 
cessions and coloured mice; the other by bowing before 
him, making him think you hard-working and industrious, 
and all the while laughing at him behind his back. Gordon 
preferred the former, because he had the love of battle; 
but Foster held to the second method, in its way just as 
effective, and anyone who shook a spear against authority 
was sure of sympathy from Gordon. 

; It was a great sight to see Foster absolutely bamboozle 
Claremont. With the greatest regularity Foster was 
ploughed in his con., failed to score in Latin prose, and 
knew nothing of his rep. And yet he never got an im- 
position. He would point out how hard he worked; he 
often stayed behind after school for a few seconds to ask 
Claremont a point in the unseen. Such keenness was un- 
usual, and Claremont could not connect it with the slovenly 
productions that he had learnt to associate with the name 
of Foster. For a long time it was a vast enigma. At half 
term Foster’s report consisted of one word, typically Clare- 
ipontian — “Inscrutable.” But manners always win in the 
end. Foster showed so much zeal, such an honest willing- 
ness to learn, that Claremont finally classed him as a hard- 
working, keen, friendly, but amazingly stupid boy. The 
Army class, which Foster honoured with his presence, al- 
ways did Latin and English with Claremont, and for over 
two years Foster sat at the back of Claremont’s room, scor- 
ing marks by singles when others scored by tens. Yet his 
reports were invariably good; he never had an imposition; 
he never needed to prepare a line of anything. 

“Well, Foster,” Claremont used to say, as he returned a 
prose entirely besmirched with blue pencil, “I believe you 
really try, but the result is most disheartening.” 

Foster always looked profoundly distressed; and at the 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


170 

end of the hour he would go up, prose in hand, and ask 
why the subject of an active verb could not be in the ab- 
lative. Two minutes later he would emerge with a broad 
grin on his face, and murmur to whoever might be near 
that Garemont was “a most damnable ass, but none the 
less a pleasant creature.” And in the evening hall he and 
Gordon would discuss how one or other of them had ad- 
vanced a step further into the enemy’s country, and taken 
one more pawn in the gigantic game of bluff. They were 
both in their own fashion working to the same end. 

But at this point the serene calm of Gordon’s life was 
suddenly rudely interrupted by an incursion on the part of 
“the Bull.” About three weeks after the term had begun 
the Colts played their first game, and like most sides at the 
beginning of a season, they were terribly disorganised. 
Lovelace, who had been in under-sixteen teams for years, 
was the Senior Colts badge and was captain. Burgoyne 
led the scrum; he was a rough diamond, if indeed a dia- 
mond at all, and was not too popular with the side. Foster 
was scrum half ; Collins and Gordon were in the scrum. It 
was really quite a decent side, but this particular afternoon 
it started shakily. “The Bull” raged so madly and cursed 
so furiously that the side became petrified with funk, and 
could do nothing right. 

Once and only once did the Colts look like scoring, and 
then Lovelace knocked on the easiest pass right between 
the posts. 

“Never did I see anything like it,” bellowed Buller. “For 
eighteen years I have coached Fernhurst; and before that 
I coached Oxford and Gloucestershire ; and I am not going 
to stand this. Lovelace, you are not fit to be captain of 
a pick-up, let alone a school Colts side. Burgoyne, skipper 
the side. Now then, two minutes more to half-time; do 
something, Colts.” 

The Colts did do something. They let the other side 
score twice. At half-time Buller poured forth a superb 
torrent of rhetoric. And suddenly there came over Gordon 
an uncontrollable desire to laugh. “The Bull” looked so 


COMMON ROOM FACES 17 1 

funny, with his hair ruffled, and his eyes flaming with wrath. 
Gordon had to look the other way, or he would have burst 
into paroxysms of laughter. When one is over-excited and 
worried, hysteria is not far absent. Gordon turned away. 

Then suddenly he felt a terrific assault on his backside. 
Someone had booted him most fiercely, and turning round 
he saw the face of Buller still more distorted with rage. 

“Never saw such rudeness ! Here am I trying to coach 
the rottenest side that has ever disgraced a Fernhurst 
ground, and you haven’t the manners to listen to me. 
Good man, are you so perfect that you can afford to pay 
no attention to me? For heaven’s sake, don’t make your 
footer like your cricket, the slackest thing in the whole of 
Fernhurst. Come on, we’ll go on with this game.” 

For ten more minutes “the Bull” watched the Colts mak- 
ing feverish endeavours to do anything right. But his 
powers of endurance were not equal to the strain. 

“Here,” he shouted, as Harding was going up to change 
after superintending a pick-up, “you might referee for 
about ten more minutes here, will you? I can’t bear the 
sight of the little slackers any longer.” 

A sigh of relief went up as the figure of Buller rolled 
out through the field gate. Strangely enough, the Colts did 
rather better after this, and Collins scored really rather a 
fine try. But the side left the field glowing with resent- 
ment. None more than Gordon and Lovelace. 

“What does the fool mean by making a little ass like 
Burgoyne captain ?” complained Gordon. “Dirty little beast, 
who does not wash or shave. And he hacked me up the 
bottom, too, the swine. I’m getting a bit sick of ‘the Bull.’ ” 

“So am I. What we really want is my brother back 
again. He kept him in order all right. My brother was a 
strong man, and did not stand any rot from Buller or any- 
one else.” 

“Hullo, you two, you look about fed up! What’s the 
row ?” 

They turned round ; Mansell was coming up behind them. 
Lovelace burst out perfervidly: 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


172 

‘It’s that fool Buller. He cursed the Colts all round, 
and he made Burgoyne captain instead of me, and he 
hacked Gordon’s bottom, and told him he had no manners. 
Believe me, we have had a jolly afternoon.” 

“And I suppose he said that he had captained Oxford, 
Cambridge, New Zealand and the Fiji Islands, and that in 
his whole career he had never seen anything like it,” said 
Mansell. 

“Oh yes, he fairly rolled out his qualifications, like a 
maid-servant applying for a post.” 

“Oh, well, never mind,” said Mansell; “he is a good 
chap, really, only he can’t keep his temper. He’ll probably 
apologise to you both before the end of the day. I remem- 
ber Ferguson said once: ‘All men are fools and half of 
them are bloody fools/ Not so bad for Ferguson that! 
Cheer up!” 

“Yes; but, damn it all, it is a bit thick,” said Lovelace. 
“And a tick like Burgoyne to boot.” 

As they were changing, a fag from Buller’s made a ner- 
vous entry; he looked very lost, but finally summoned up 
enough courage to ask Davenport if he knew where Caruth- 
ers was. 

“Yonder, sirrah, lurking behind the piano.” 

The fag came up. 

“Oh — I say — er — Caruthers. ‘The Bull’ — er, I mean Mr. 
Buller wants to see you as soon as you are changed.” 

“Right,” said Gordon. 

“I said so,” said Mansell ; “he will weep over you and 
shake your hand like a long-lost brother ; and after you 
will follow Lovelace, who will once more lead the lads with 
white jerseys and red dragons to victory against Osborne. 
Good-bye; you needn’t stop, you know,” he informed the 
fag, who was giving a stork-like performance, by gyrating 
first on one foot then on another. 

“That means I shall miss my tea,” said Gordon. 

“I fear so,” answered Mansell. “I don’t really think 
you can expect ‘the Bull’ to receive you with crumpets and 
muffins and other goodly delights. Of course to-morrow 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


173 

is Sunday; you might manage to work a supper-party, but 
don’t rely on it. Come and tell me the result of your chat ; 
you will find me in my study; don’t knock; just walk in; you 
are always welcome.” 

As Gordon walked across the courts to Buller’s study 
he had not the slightest doubt as to how the interview 
would end. “The Bull” was often like this. Only yester- 
day Foster had told him some long yarn of how he had 
beaten a lad in Christy’s and had hit his hand by mistake; 
and to kick a person was, after all, a far more undignified 
method of assault. It was almost actionable. Quite con- 
tentedly he knocked on the door and went in. He was 
not, however, welcomed with open arms. “The Bull” stood 
with his back to the door, facing the fireplace, his hands 
behind his back. He did not speak for a minute or so. 
Gordon wondered if it would be correct to take a chair. 
“The Bull” broke the silence. 

“Well, Caruthers, are you sorry for what happened this 
afternoon ?” 

This took Gordon by surprise; it was hardly the inter- 
view he had been led to expect. He murmured “Yes” 
rather indistinctly. 

“Are you, though? Because if you are just going to 
come in here and say you are sorry, when you are not, just 
to smooth things over, you would be a pretty rotten sort 
of fellow.” 

“Yes.” Gordon had recovered his self-control and was 
ready for a fight. 

“Well, this is the way I look at things. I am here to 
coach Fernhurst sides; it is my life’s work. I love Fern- 
hurst, and I have devoted all my energy and care to help 
my old school, and it seems to me that you are trying — 
you and Lovelace between you — to ruin my work and stand 
in my light. Both of you as individuals are well worth your 
places in both under-sixteen sides, football and cricket. As 
individuals, I say; and you think you are indispensable to 
the side, and that we can’t do without you. You can af- 
ford to laugh when you miss catches, and not pay atten- 


i 7 4 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

tion to me when I am trying to give you the benefits of my 
experience.” 

“I heard every word ” 

“Will you kindly wait till I have finished. Femhurst 
has done very well in the past without you and Lovelace, 
and five years hence it will have to do without you, and I 
am not going to have you interfere with the present. You 
hate me, I dare say; from all I hear of you, you hate my 
house; and you stir up sedition against me. You show the 
others how much you care for me. And you are both 
people who have some influence in your house, and wher- 
ever you are, for that matter. And are you using it for 
the good of Fernhurst? You ruined all my pleasure in the 
cricket Colts ; but I don’t care about myself. All I care for 
is Fernhurst. Why did I stop Lovelace being captain? 
Because I want a man who is going to back me up, who 
is going to play for the side and not for himself. And I 
tell you I am going to drop Lovelace ; he plays for himself ; 
he gives rotten passes; he upsets combination; and I won’t 
have him on my side.” 

Gordon could stand it no longer. 

“Sir, I am not going to hold a brief for myself. But 
you have not treated Lovelace fairly. Last year on a trial 
game you kicked him out of the side, only to find in a week 
that you could not do without him. And to-day, sir, on a 
trial game you deposed him from the captaincy.” 

“Do you mean to say that after playing Rugby football 
for twenty-five years I don’t know what I am talking: 
about ?” 

Gordon saw he had said too much. 

“And I am not talking about his play, I am talking about 
his general attitude. Now, didn’t you two rag about a 
good deal at the nets last term?” 

“Well, sir, it was hardly ragging, sir ” 

“Oh, hardly ragging. . . . There must be no ragging. 
. . . If we are going to turn out good sides we must be in 
dead earnest the whole time. You imagine you are loyal to 
Fernhurst. My old sides followed me implicitly. I loved 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


175 

them, and they loved me. We worked together for Fern- 
hurst; now, are you doing your best for Fernhurst? ,, 

Gordon was overwhelmed. He wanted to tell “the Bull” 
how mistaken he was; that he and Lovelace did not hate 
him at all; that they were doing their best; but that their 
sense of humour was at times too strong. But it was 
useless. “The Bull” would not give him a chance. And 
he had learnt from Mansell and Tester that “the Bull” 
could only see one point of view at a time. And yet he 
was filled with an immense admiration for this man who 
thought only of Fernhurst, who had worked for Fernhurst 
all his life, who made Fernhurst’s interests the standard 
for every judgment and action. There was something es- 
sentially noble in so unswerving a devotion. If only his 
love of Fernhurst had not made him so complete an egoist. 

“Well, what is it to be, Caruthers?” Buller went on. 
“Are you going to work with me or against me? When 
you first came you were keen and willing. You are still 
keen, but you think too much of yourself now; you im- 
agine you know more than I do. Is all this going to stop? 
Are we going to work together?” 

There was nothing to be gained by arguing. 

“Sir, I shall do my best to.” 

“Well, I hope so, Caruthers. It is not for my own sake 
I mind ; you see that, don't you ? It is Fernhurst that mat- 
ters. We must all do our best for Fernhurst. Well, 
Caruthers, I hope we sha'n’t have any more trouble, be- 
cause you will be a power in the school some day, and we 
want to work together — for Fernhurst.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Gordon walked to the door; as he put his hand on the 
knob he paused for a second, then turned round. 

“Good-night, sir.” 

“Good-night, Caruthers.” 

He was out in the street again. There was a tremendous 
noise going on in one of the Buller’s studies. From the 
courts came sounds of barge football. He did not feel as 
if he wanted to go and discuss everything with Mansell for 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


176 

a minute or so. Slowly he wandered round the shrubbery, 
past the big school, past the new buildings into the Abbey 
courtyard. He sat down on a seat and tried to think. A 
girl came and sat beside him and smiled at him invitingly. 
He took no notice. She sat there a minute or so, then got 
up and walked off stiffly. The Abbey clock boomed out 
the quarter to six. In a minute or so he would have to go 
back to tea. He was worried. He liked “the Bull, ,, ad- 
mired him intensely; and yet “the Bull” thought he hated 
him, thought him disloyal. Why could not Buller keep 
his temper? Why must he rush to conclusions without 
weighing the evidence? And “the Bull” was such a splen- 
did man; he was one of the very few masters Gordon re- 
spected in the least. He wanted “the Bull” to like him. 
And then there was Lovelace. Why couldn’t “the Bull” 
try and see life as Lovelace saw it? Why must he want 
everyone to share the same views as he did, look at every- 
thing through the same spectacles? It wouldn’t have mat- 
tered if he was merely an insignificant busybody like 
Christy. He was such a splendid fellow, such a man. It 
was all a great pity. And yet he realised that he would 
have to try and bend his will to that of Buller; he must 
endeavour to work side by side with him. It would not do 
to have Fernhurst split up into two camps. In the past he 
had thought he was doing his best; but “the Bull” wanted 
absolute subservience. And what “the Bull” wanted he 
usually got. 

Lovelace, however, took quite a different view. He was 
mad with Buller. 

“Damn it all, it is not the first time the swine has done 
the dirty on me. Look at the way he kicked me out of the 
side last year,” he protested. 

“Yes, I know,” said Gordon; “that’s what I told him. 
And he owned that both of us as individuals were worth 
our place, but that we upset the side and rotted about, and 
were always up against him.” 

“Silly ass the man must be. We are keen enough, aren’t 
jve? But I damned well don’t see why we should treat 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


177 

footer and cricket as a sort of chapel service. We can 
laugh in form if anything funny happens; then why the 
hell shouldn’t we laugh on the field ? And, my God, Caruth- 
ers, you did look an ass when you missed that catch.” 
Lovelace roared with laughter at the thought of it. “The 
way you juggled with it, and old Bull tearing his hair, oh, 
it was damned funny.” 

“But, you see, ‘the Bull’ thinks games are everything, 
and, damn it all, they are the things that really matter. 
We each may have our own private interests. But games 
are the thing. Only personally I don’t see why we should 
not see the funny side of them. To ‘the Bull,’ of course, a 
dropped catch is an everlasting disgrace.” 

“Oh, let ‘the Bull’ go to blazes, I am sick of him. If he 
wants to kid me out of the Colts, he can; and I’ll go and 
enjoy myself on House games. But look here, there is a 
Stoics debate to-night and it is just on roll-time. You had 
better go down and bag two seats.” 

As Gordon strolled down to bag seats he thought that 
there was a good deal to be said for Lovelace’s point of 
view. One played games to enjoy oneself, after all. But 
still “the Bull” thought otherwise, and it was the interests 
of Fernhurst that had to be considered. Just then “the 
Bull” and Fernhurst seemed almost synonymous terms. 

The Stoics society was one of elastic proportions, in- 
cluding everyone above IV. A, with a life subscription of 
sixpence, and during the winter term it held meetings every 
other week in the School House reading-room. The actual 
membership was over a hundred, but rarely more than fifty 
attended, and of those who went only fifty per cent, paid 
any attention to the proceedings. The rest looked on it as 
a good excuse for getting off work. Three quarters of the 
society were from the School House, and these arrived with 
deck-chairs, cushions and a novel, and thoroughly enjoyed 
themselves. Christy was the president, and this was to a 
great extent the reason for so general an atmosphere of 
boredom and indifference. For Christy was the typical 
product of conventionality and pharisaism. He was so 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


r i78 

thoroughly contented with anything he superintended that 
he refused to believe any improvement was possible. But 
this year Betteridge was honorary secretary and had tried 
to infuse a little life into the society. The subject for the 
first debate of the term was “Classical and Modern Educa- 
tion, ” and Ferrers was going to speak for the modern side. 
Ferrers was always writing to the papers, and was already 
well known in the common room as a feverish orator. A 
good deal had been rumoured about him, and the school 
were rather anxious to hear him. There was quite a large 
audience. At about twenty past seven Christy came in, 
and everyone stood up till he had sat down. Burgess was 
to open the debate for the classics, and Christy was to 
second him. Ferrers and Fothering, the head of Clare- 
mont, were for the moderns. The debate was supposed to 
open at twenty past the hour. But Ferrers had not arrived. 
There was an awkward pause. At last Christy got up. 

“I really think it is useless to wait any longer for Mr. 
Ferrers. We will proceed. The motion before the House 
is : That in the opinion of this House a classical education 
is more efficacious than a modern one. I will call on Mr. 
Burgess to open the motion.” 

There was a little clapping as Burgess got up with a 
customary display of conceit. He ran his hand through 
his hair and took a glance at his notes, and then began with 
the blase air of Mercury addressing a Salvation Army meet- 
ing. 

“Of course those in favour of modern education will de- 
fend themselves on the grounds of general utility. They 
will point out the uselessness of Greek in business; all I 
can say to that is that the Public School man should be too 
much of a gentleman to wish to succeed in business. He 
should aim higher; he should follow the ideals set before 
him by the classics. Nearly all the poets and politicians of 
to-day are Public School men; nearly all . . .” 

He went on rolling off absurdly dogmatic statements 
that were based solely on ignorance and arrogance. He 
was of the Rogers’ school of oratory. He believed that a 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


179 

sufficient amount of conceit and self-possession would carry 
anyone through. About half-way through his speech he 
was interrupted by the approach of a whirlwind. There 
was a sound of feet on the stone passage, something crashed 
against the door, and in rolled Ferrers in a most untidy 
blue suit, a soft collar, an immense woollen waistcoat, and 
three books under his arm. These he slammed on the table, 
in company with his cap. 

“Awfully sorry, Christy, old fellow . . . been kept . . . 
new lot of books from Methuen’s . . . had to take one up 
to my wife . . . rather ill, you know. . . . Fire away, 
Burgess.” 

All his remarks were flung off in jerks at a terrific rate. 
The abashed orator concluded rather prematurely and 
rather wildly; such an incursion was most irregular and 
very perplexing. 

“I will now call on Mr. Ferrers to speak.” 

Up leapt Ferrers and began at once firing off his speech 
at the pace of a cinematograph. He was full of manner- 
isms. He would clap his hand over his eyes when he wanted 
to think of something, and would then spread it out 
straight before him. It was rather dangerous to get close. 
He would pick up one of his books and shake it in the face 
of Christy. 

“This is what Mackenzie says ... in Sinister Street . . . 
fine book . . . smashes up everything, shows the shallow- 
ness of our education . . . this is what he says. . . .” 

After he had read a few words, he would bang the book 
down on the table and continue pouring forth inextricable 
anacolutha. Everyone was listening ; they had never 
heard anything quite like this before. It was a revelation. 
Christy chewed his finger-nails. Burgess assumed an air 
of Olympian contempt. The flood of rhetoric rolled on : 

“It is like this, you see; the classical education makes 
you imitate all the time . . . Greek Prose like Sophocles 
. . . Latin Verse like Petronius. ... I don’t know if I 
have got the names right . . . probably not . . . never 
could stick doing it. There is no free thought. Classic men 


180 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

do very well in the Foreign Offices, but they can’t think. . . . 
What do classics do in the literary world? Nothing. 
Chesterton, Lloyd George, Symons, Wells — all the best 
men never went to a Public School. . . . We want original- 
ity ; and the classics don’t give it. They are all right for a 
year or so to give a grounding of taste . . . though they 
don’t give that to the average boy . . . but no more. What 
did I learn from classics? — only to devise a new way of 
bringing a crib into form. ... Is that an education? No, 
we want French, jolly few cribs to be got of Daudet that 
are any use to the Lower Fifth . . . Maths, that’s the stuff 
. . . makes them think. . . . Riders . . . get them out your 
own way — not Vergil’s way or Socrates’ way — your own 
way — originality. . . .” 

In this strain he talked for a quarter of an hour, and 
held the audience spellbound. He had really interested 
them. Here was something new, something worth listening 
to. He was received with a roar of clapping. 

After his speech everything else fell flat. Christy made 
one or two super-subtle remarks which no one understood. 
There was nothing left for Fothering to say; the motion 
was then put before the House and the debate developed 
into a farce. Idiot after idiot got up and made some in- 
fantile qualification of an earlier statement — all of them 
talked off the point. So much so, in fact, that Turner was 
beginning a tale of a fight he had had with a coster down 
Cheap Street when Christy called him to order. 

Gordon at once rose in protest. 

“Gentlemen, I address the Chair. It is preposterous that 
Mr. Turner should have been refused a hearing. We may 
have lost what would perhaps have thrown new light on 
the subject. Doubtless he had carefully selected this par- 
ticular anecdote out of a life, alas, too full of excitement” 
(a roar greeted this, Christy had beaten Turner that very 
morning for eating chocolates in German), “with the ex- 
press view of pointing out the superiority of the classics. 
Doubtless the rough in question, not knowing the custom 
in Homeric contests, had failed to propitiate the gods, while 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


181 


he, the narrator, had rushed into Back Lane behind Mother 
Beehive's charming old-world residence, and having offered 
a prayer to Mars, waited for his burly antagonist in the 
darkness, and as the vile man, clearly one of St. Paul’s ‘god 
haters' " (that time the Sixth were reading the “Romans") 
•‘thundered by, he smote him with a stone above the eye, 
and left him discomfited and, like CEdipus, well nigh blind. 
Here we see " 

But the meeting never found out what they really saw. 
Gordon was called to order, and sat down amid a tumult 
of applause. One or two more speakers brought fresh evi- 
dence to bear on the subject; and then there was the divi- 
sion. The modems won by a huge majority. As the rabble 
passed into the passage Gordon heard Ferrers say to Christy 
in his most patronising manner: 

“Ah, we rather wiped the ground with you, didn’t we? 
. . . Well, never mind, you stood no earthly. . . . Days 
of the classics are over. Still, you fought well. . . . Third 
line of defence — ad triarios. ... I remember a bit of my 
classics." 

Gordon was borne out on the stream past the matron's 
room to the end of the passage, and the rest of Ferrers’s 
speech was lost. 

From this day the Stoics underwent a complete change. 
The whole nature of the society was altered. Ferrers was 
so absolutely different from anything that a master had ap- 
peared to be from time immemorial. He was essentially of 
the new generation, an iconoclast, a follower of Brooke and 
Gilbert Cannan, heedless of tradition, probing the root of 
everything. At the end of the term Christy resigned his 
presidency. He could not keep pace with the whirlwind 
Ferrers. 

“You know, Caruthers,” said Tester in second hall, 
“whatever our personal feelings may be, we have got to 
allow that this man Ferrers has got something in him." 

“Something ! Why, I thought him simply glorious. Here 
he is bursting in on the prude conventionality of Fernhurst 
full of new ideas, smashing up the things that have been 


182 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


accepted unquestionably for years. By Jove, the rest of the 
staff must hate him.” 

“There was a thing by him in the A.M.A. the other day 
that caused considerable annoyance, I believe. I didn't 
read the thing myself, but I heard ‘the Bull' saying it was 
disgraceful that a Fernhurst master should be allowed to 
say such things. I suppose he said something against 
games.” 

“Well, damn it all, if he did, he is in the wrong. Games 
are absolutely necessary. What on earth would the country 
be like without them?” 

“A damned sight better, I should think.” 

“Oh, don’t be an ass. Just look at the fellows who don’t 
play games, Rudd and Co. What wrecks they are ! Utterly 
useless. We could do perfectly well without them. Could 
not we now?” 

At this point Betteridge strolled in very leisurely. Au- 
thority had made him a very dignified person. The days 
of ragging Trundle seemed very distant. He did not go 
about with Mansell so much now. He was more often 
with Carter and Harding. 

“Betteridge, come in and sit down,” said Tester; “we are 
just having an argument on the value of games. Don’t you 
agree with me that it’s about time a man like Ferrers really 
began to make a sensible attack on them?” 

“Yes; though I doubt if Ferrers is quite the man to do it. 
He is such a revolutionary. He would want to smash 
everything at once. A gradual change is what is needed. I 
look at it like this. Games are all right in themselves. A 
man must keep himself physically fit ; but games are only a 
means to an end. The object of all progress is to get a clear, 
clean-sighted race, intellectual and broad-minded. And I 
think physical fitness is a great help in the production of a 
clear, clean mind. The very clever man who is weak bodily 
is so apt to become a decadent ; and because he himself can’t 
stand any real exertion, despises those who can. Games are 
necessary as a means to an end. But Buller and all the rest 
of the lot think games are the actual end. Look at the way 


COMMON ROOM FACES 183 

a man with his footer cap is idealised and worshipped. He 
may be an utter rake; probably is, most likely he has no 
brains at all. If he ever had them, he soon ceased to use 
them, and devoted all his energies to athletic success. Why 
should we worship him? Merely because he can kick a 
rotten football down a rotten field. It is this worship of 
athletics that is so wrong.” 

“Oh, you are talking rot,” burst out Gordon angrily; 
“the English race is the finest in the whole world and has 
been bred on footer and cricket. I own the Public School 
system is rotten to the core ; but not because of games. It 
stamps out personality, tries to make types of us all, re- 
fuses to allow us to think for ourselves. We have to read 
and pretend to like what our masters tell us to. No free- 
dom. But games are all right. We all have our own in- 
terests. Poetry is my chief one at present. But that doesn't 
blind me to the fact that games are what count. Where 
should we be without them? And I damn well hope the 
House is not going to get into a finicky, affected state of 
mind, despising them because they are too slack to play 
them. That's why you hate them, Betteridge, because you 
are no good at them. My great ambition is to be captain 
of this House and win the Three Cock. Of course the wor- 
ship of sport is all right. Our fathers worshipped it, and 
damned good fellows they were, too. I can't stand you 
when you talk like this. I am going to find Lovelace; he 
has got a bit of sense.” 

The door slammed noisily behind him. 

“He is very young,” said Betteridge. 

“Yes; and full of hopes,” murmured Tester. “It is a 
pity to think he will have to be so soon disillusioned. Very 
little remains the same for long. Pleasure is very evanes- 
cent.” 

Betteridge looked at him a little curiously. 

“I should not have thought you would have found that 
out,” he said. 

Tester looked annoyed. He hated himself being given 
away; as it was, he just passed it off with a laugh. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


184 

“Oh, well, you know, even the fastest of us get tired of 
our licence at times. Byron would have become a Benedic- 
tine monk if he had lived to be fifty.” 

Betteridge smiled, and picking up a Browning from the 
table sank into an easy-chair to read. 

Tester remained looking into the fire. What a fool he 
had been to give himself away just then. It was his great 
object never to let anyone really see into his soul. He had 
once shown Caruthers what he was, because he could not 
bear to see a person of ability wasting himself for want of 
high ideals. He had tried to show him that there was some- 
thing above the commonplace routine of life. And in a way 
he had succeeded. Caruthers often came in in the evenings 
to discuss poetry with him, and those were some of the 
happiest moments of his life. He was not sorry that he 
had poured out his heart to him. Of course Caruthers was 
still young, was still under the influence of environment. 
But in time he was sure to realise that athletics were not 
the aim of life, but only a tavern on the wayside, where we 
may rest for a little, or which we may pass by, just as our 
fancy takes us. If Caruthers saw this at last, he would 
then have done at least something not altogether vain. 

For, after all, what a useless life his had been. The road 
he had travelled seemed white with the skeletons of broken 
hopes. In the glowing coals he saw the pageant of his past 
unroll itself. He had never been quite the normal person. 
His father was a minor poet, and for as long as he could 
remember his house had been full of literary people. 
Arthur Symons and George Moore had often discussed the 
relations between art and life across his fireplace. Yeats 
had told him stories of strange Irish myths ; Thomas Hardy 
had read to him once or twice. He had spent his whole 
life with men who thought for themselves, who had despised 
the conventions of their day, and he himself had ceased 
to believe in anything except what personal experience 
taught him. He had resolved to find out things for him- 
self. And what, after all, had he discovered? Little ex- 
cept the vanity of mortal things. In his friendship with 


COMMON ROOM FACES 185 

Stapleton he had for a term or so found a temporary peace, 
but it had not been for long. As soon as he achieved any- 
thing it seemed to collapse before him. He had at times 
sought to forget his failures in blind fits of passion, but 
when the fire was burnt out the old world was the old 
world yet ! In books alone he found a lasting comfort. The 
school looked on him as “quite a decent chap, awfully fast, 
of course, doesn’t care a damn what he does, just lives to 
enjoy himself and have a damned good time.” He smiled 
at the irony of it all. If they only knew ! But they could 
never know. He had made a mistake in saying so much to 
Betteridge just before; he must not do it again. He must 
go on probing everything to discover where, if anywhere, 
was that complete peace, that perfect beauty that he had set 
out to find. In the meantime the destiny of his life would 
unfold itself. He would just follow where his inclinations 
led him. 

The evening bell broke into his reverie. 

He stretched himself. 

“Well, come on, Betteridge. Let us have a rag to-night.” 

“Oh, I don’t think I will, I am rather sleepy.” Better- 
idge was aware of his position. To Tester being a prefect 
signified very little. 

That night Carter’s dormitory was submitted to a most 
fearful raid. Water flowed everywhere. Two sheets were 
ripped and a jug broken. Rudd’s bed was upset on the 
floor with Rudd underneath. 

“By Jove, Caruthers,” said Lovelace, from Harding’s 
well-behaved dormitory, “that man Tester is some lad.” 

And Gordon thought, as he saw him laying about him full 
lustily with a pillow, that all his talk about games must be 
merely a damned affectation. He was really just like any 
ordinary fellow. 

When peace was at last restored, and Tester led home his 
victorious forces, he laughed quietly to himself, as he 
watched the moonlight falling across a huge pool of water. 
He had played his part pretty well. 


x 86 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


For the rest of the term life flowed easily with Gordon. 
There were no further rows with “the Bull” ; in fact their 
row seemed, for a time at any rate, to have brought them 
closer together than they had ever been before. Both seemed 
anxious to be friends with one another, and on the football 
field Gordon’s play gave really very little cause for com- 
plaint. For this term his football reached its highest level. 
In following seasons he payed good games on occasions, 
but he never equalled the standard he set himself in the 
Colts. It was one of Gordon’s chief characteristics that 
he usually did well while others failed, and this term the 
Colts for some reason or other never properly got together. 
The side kept on being altered. For a week after the row 
Lovelace was kept out of the side ; but it was soon obvious 
that his presence was absolutely necessary. 

“What did I say,” said Gordon. “You see, ‘the Bull’s’ 
madness doesn’t last for very long. He got a bit fed up 
with you, Lovelace, so he made himself imagine your foot- 
ball was bad. He can always make himself think what he 
likes.” 

“Yes; but it is rather a nuisance,” Mansell remarked, 
“when you realise it is always House men who have to do 
the Jekyll and Hyde business.” 

“Good Lord ! Mansell, you are becoming literary,” 
laughed Gordon. “How did you hear of Jekyll and 
Hyde?” 

“Claremont has been reading the thing on Sunday morn- 
ings; not so bad for a fool like Stevenson. It rather re- 
minded me of The Doctor's Double, by Nat Gould; only, 
of course, it is not half so good.” 

“No that is a fact,” said Lovelace. “Nat Gould is the 
finest author alive. I read some stuff in the paper the other 
day about books being true to life. Well, you could not 
get anything more true than The Double Event; and race- 
horsing is the most important thing in life, too. I sent up 
the other day for six of his books; they ought to be here 
to-morrow.” 

“Well, for God’s sake, don’t bring them in here,” said 


COMMON ROOM FACES 187 

Gordon, “there is enough mess as it is with The Sportsmans 
of the last month trailing all over the place.” 

“Oh, have some sense, man ; you don’t know what litera- 
ture is.” 

Gordon subsided. All his new theories of art collapsed 
very easily before the honest Philistinism of Lovelace and 
Mansell ; for he was not quite sure of his own views him- 
self. He loved poetry, because it seemed to express his own 
emotions so adequately. Byron’s Tempest-anger, Tempest- 
mirth was as balm to his rebellious soul. Rebellion was, in 
fact, at this time almost a religion with him. Only a few 
days back he had discovered Byron’s sweeping confession 
of faith, “I have simplified my politics into an utter de- 
testation of all existing governments,” and he found it a 
most self-satisfying doctrine. That was what his own life 
should be. He would fight against these masters with their 
old-fashioned and puritanic notions ; he would be the 
preacher of the new ideas. It was all very crude, very im- 
possible, but at the back of this torrid violence lay an 
honest desire to better conditions, tempered, it must be 
owned, with an ambition to fill the middle of the stage him- 
self. In his imagination he became a second Byron, He 
saw, or thought he saw, the mistakes of the system under 
which he lived ; and — without pausing to consider its merits 
— wished to sweep away the whole foundation into the sea, 
and to build upon some illusory basis a new heaven and new 
earth. He had yet to read the essay in which Matthew 
Arnold says that “Byron shattered, inevitably shattered him- 
self against the black rock of British Philistinism.” He 
was at present so full of hope. The Poetry of Revolt col- 
oured his imagination to such a degree that he saw himself 
standing alone and triumphant amid the wreck of the world 
he had overthrown. He was always protesting that Swin- 
burne’s finest line was in the Hymn to Proserpine : 

r ‘I neither kneel nor adore them, but standing look to the end’* 

It raises a wonderful picture to a young imagination: 
Swinburne standing on a mountain, looking across the 


1 88 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


valley of years in which man fights feverishly for little 
things, in which nations rise to empire for a short while, 
in which constitutions totter and fall, looking to where, 
far away behind the mountains, flickered the faint white 
streamers of the dawn. Oh, he was very young; very con- 
ceited too, no doubt; but is there anyone who, having lived 
longer, having seen many bright dreams go down, having 
been disillusioned, and having realised that he is but a 
particle in an immense machine, would not change places 
with Gordon, and see life once more roseflushed with im- 
possible loyalties? 

In its passage school life seems very long; in retrospect 
it appears but a few hours. There is such a sameness about 
everything. A few incidents here and there stand out clear, 
but, as a whole, day gives place to day without differing 
much from those that have gone before it. We do not 
realise this till we can look back on them from a distance; 
but it is none the less true. 

In the Sixth Gordon’s scholastic career took the way of 
all other fugitive things. It had once given promise of lead- 
ing somewhere, or resulting in something, but it wanted 
more than ordinary perseverance to overcome the atmos- 
phere of the deep-rooted objection to work that overhung 
all the proceedings in the Sixth Form room. And that 
perseverance Gordon lamentably lacked. 

The Lower Sixth was mainly under the supervision of 
Mr. Finnemore ; and it was a daily wonder to Gordon why 
a person so obviously unfitted should have been entrusted 
with so heavy a responsibility. Finally he came to the con- 
clusion that the last headmaster had thought that the Sixth 
Form would probably make less fun and take fewer liberties 
with him than any other form, and that when the present 
Chief had come he had not had the heart to remove what 
had almost become a school fixture. Mr. Finnemore was an 
oldish man, getting on for sixty, and his hair was quite 
white. H f e had a long moustache, his clothes carried the 
odour of stale tobacco, his legs seemed hung on to his body 
by hooks, that every day appeared less likely to maintain 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


189 

the weight attached to them. He wore a continually sad 
smile on his face, a smile that was half self-depreciatory, 
as though uncertain of its right to be there. He was most 
mercilessly “ragged.” 

The day when he took exams in big school will never be 
forgotten. Gordon was then in V. A. The Sixth, the Army 
class and the Upper Fifth were all supposed to be prepar- 
ing for some future paper. All three forms had, of course, 
nothing to do. The Chief was up in town. 

At four-fifteen Finnemore was observed to be moving 
in his strange way across the courts. With an almost sus- 
picious quietness the oak desks were filled. 

“What are you doing to-day, Lane?” Finnemore asked 
the head of the school. 

“I believe, sir, we are supposed to be preparing some- 
thing.” 

“Ah, excellent; excellent, a very good opportunity for 
putting in some good, hard work. Excellent ! Excellent !” 

For about three minutes there was peace. Then Ferguson 
lethargically arose. He strolled up the steps to the dais, 
and leaning against the organ loft began to speak: 

“Gentlemen, as not only the Sixth Form, but also the 
Army class and Upper Fifth, are gathered here this after- 
noon with no very ostensible reason for work, I suggest 
that we should hold, on a small scale, a Bacchic festival. 
This will, of course, be not only entertaining but also in- 
structive. ‘Life consists in knowing where to stop, and 
going a little further/ once said H. H. Monro. Let us fol- 
low his advice — and that of the Greeks. First, let us shove 
the desks against the wall and make ready for the dance.” 

It had all been prepared beforehand. In a few minutes 
several hundred books had been dropped, several ink-pots 
lay smashed on the floor. There was a noise of furious 
thunder, and at last all the desks somehow got shoved 
against the wall. 

Finnemore was quite overwhelmed, “magnificently un- 
prepared.” He lay back nervously in his chair, fingering 
his moustache. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


190 

“This must now cease,” he said finally. 

“No, really, sir,” protested Ferguson; “everything is quite 
all right. Mr. Carter, will you oblige us by playing the 
piano? I myself will conduct.” 

The floor of the big school is made of exquisitely polished 
oak, and is one of the glories of Fernhurst. It was admir- 
ably suited for the dance which within five minutes was in 
progress. It was a noble affair. Finnemore sat back in 
his chair powerless, impotent; Carter hammered out false 
notes on a long-suffering piano. Ferguson beat time at the 
top of the dais, with a pen gently waving between his 
fingers, as gracefully as the pierrots of Aubrey Beardsley 
play with feathers. Down below heavy feet pretended to 
dance to an impossible tune. Someone began a song, others 
followed suit, and before long the austere sanctity of the 
room was violated by the flat melodies of Hitchy-Koo. It 
was indeed an act of vandalism. But the rioters had for- 
gotten that they were distinctly audible from without. In 
the Chief’s absence they had thought a row out of the 
queston. 

Unfortunately, however, “the Bull’s” class-room w^as 
only a few yards off. When first he heard the strains of 
revelling borne upwards he thought it must be the choir 
practising for the Christmas concert. But it did not take 
long for him to appreciate that such a supposition was out 
of the question. The noise was deafening. He could hardly 
hear himself talk; investigation must be made. He got up 
and walked out into the courts, made his way to the big 
school, and opening the door revealed the scene that has 
just been described. For a second or so he stood speechless. 
He felt much as Moses might have felt if he had seen a 
tribe of Gentiles invading the Holy of Holies. Then his 
voice rang out : 

“What is the meaning of this unseemly disturbance?” 

A sudden silence fell over the revellers, as in Poe’s story 
of the red death when the stranger entered the room. 

Buller looked round. 

“My form, the Army class, will follow me.” 


COMMON ROOM FACES 19 1 

Disconsolately his form found their books and moved 
out of the room, fully aware that they would shortly have 
to pay full price for their pleasure. Over the remainder 
there fell a chill feeling of uncertainty. A few spasmodic 
efforts were made to carry on, but the light-heartedness 
was gone. The laughter was forced. Finally noise sub- 
sided into whispering, and whispering into silence and the 
scratching of pens. > 

There loomed before the Sixth Form visions of a very 
unpleasant interview with the Chief, and their expectations' 
were not disappointed. The whole form had to stay back 
on the last day and write out a Georgic. Only the Fifth 
got off scot-free. Macdonald was told to deal with them, 
but he saw the humour of the affair too strongly to do any- 
thing but laugh. 

“These supernumerary masters, you know — Finnemore, 
Cambridge man — can’t keep order. No good at all. Can’t 
think why the Chief took him.” And then, after a pause : 
“I wish I had been there !” 

The result of this was that for the future Finnemore was 
treated with a little more respect. The Sixth decided that 
dances did not pay, and so contented itself with less noisy 
but really just as aggravating amusements. For instance, 
Finnemore’s hatred of Browning was a byword; so one 
day the entire form decided to learn The Lost Leader for 
repetition. For a while Finnemore bore it patiently, but 
when a burly chemistry specialist walked up to within two 
feet of him and began to bawl so loudly that his actual 
words were distinguishable in the School House studies, 
the master covered his face with his hands and murmured: 
“Oh, heaven spare me this infliction!” 

On another occasion Betteridge walked quietly up to 
him, handed him a Shelley, and without any warning sud- 
denly shrieked out: 

“He hath outsoared the shadow of our night.” 

Finnemore looked at him sadly: “My dear Betteridge, ” 
he said, “and so early in the morning!” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


192 

By many little things his life was made wretched for him. 
But yet he would not have chosen any other profession. 
He had once started life with very high hopes, but had 
discovered that the world is not in sympathy with men of 
ideas who do not prophesy smooth things. And so at an 
early age he found himself disappointed in all his personal 
aims. It seemed that he had to harbour only the simplest 
wish to find it denied. And then he realised that for the 
loss of youth there can be no compensation, and that in 
youth alone happiness could be found. And so he had 
decided to spend his life in company with high hopes and 
smiling faces. There were times when an immense sadness 
came over him, when he thought that disillusionment was 
waiting for so many of them and that there were few who 
would “carry their looks or their truth to the grave.” 
But on the whole he was as happy as his temperament 
could ever allow him, and Gordon, although in a sense 
he was the very antithesis of all that he admired most, 
found himself strangely in sympathy with his new master. 
One day the subject for an essay was “Conventionality,” 
and Gordon unpacked his torrid soul in a wild abuse of all 
the existing governments. After he had written it, he 
got rather nervous about its reception, but it was returned 
marked a — , and Finnemore had written at the bottom: 
“We all think like this when we are young; and, after all, 
it is good to be young.” 

Gordon felt that he had found someone who understood 
him. 

Finnemore lived in two rooms over the masters’ common 
room, which had from time immemorial been the possession 
of the Sixth Form tutor, and in the evenings when Gordon 
used to go to have his prose corrected Finnemore would 
often ask him to stay behind and have some coffee. Then 
the two would talk about poetry and art and life till the 
broken bell rang out its cracked imperious summons. 
Finnemore had once published a small book of verses, a 
copy of which he gave to Gordon. They had in them all 
the frail pathos of a wasted career; most of them were 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


193 

songs of spurned affection, and inside was the quotation: 
“Scribere jussit amor” 

“When I look at the book,” said Finnemore to Gordon, 
“I can’t associate myself with the author, I seem to have 
quite outgrown him. And as I recall the verses I say to 
myself, ‘Poor fellow, life was hard to you,’ and I wonder 
if he really was myself.” 

With him Gordon saw life from a different angle. He 
presented the spectacle of failure, and it rather sobered 
Gordon’s wild enthusiasm, at times, to feel himself so close 
to anything so bitterly poignant. But the hour of youth’s 
domination, even if it be but an hour, is too full of excite- 
ment and confidence to be overclouded by doubts for very 
long. Usually Gordon saw in him a pathetic shadow 
whom he patronised. He did not realise that it was what 
he himself might become. 

Through the long tedious hours in the shadowy class- 
room Gordon dreamed of wonderful successes, and let 
others pass him by in the rush for promotion. He began 
to think that prizes and form lists were not worth worrying 
about; he said a classical education had such a narrowing 
effect on character. We can always produce arguments 
to back up an inclination if we want to. And in Finnemore 
there was no force to stir anyone to do what they did not 
want. 

Only once a day was Gordon at all industrious, and that 
was when the Chief took the Lower and Upper Sixth 
Form combined in Horace and Thucydides. 

For the Chief Gordon always worked ; not, it is true, with 
any real measure of success, for he had rather got out of the 
habit of grinding at the classics, but at any rate with energy. 
And during these hours he began to perceive vaguely what 
a clear-sighted, unprejudiced mind the Chief had. To 
the boy in the Fourth and Fifth forms any headmaster 
must appear not so much a living person as the emblem 
of authority, the final dispenser of justice, the hard, analyti- 
cal sifter of evidence, “coldly sublime, intolerably just.” 
Gordon had always before looked on the Chief as a figure- 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


194 

head, who at times would unbend most surprisingly and 
become a man. On the cricket field, when in a masters’ 
match he had fielded cleanly a terrific cut at point, and 
played a most sporting innings, at House suppers, and, 
most surprisingly of all, when a row was on, Gordon had 
been unable to understand him. He could not dissociate 
him from his conception of a headmaster — a sort of Mer- 
cury, a divine emissary of the gods, sent as a necessary in- 
fliction. Yet at times the Chief was intensely human, and 
when Gordon came under his immediate influence and caught 
a glimpse of his methods, he saw in a flash that at all times 
his headmaster was a generous, sympathetic nature, and 
that it was his own distorted view that had ever made 
him think otherwise. The Chief was so ready to ap- 
preciate a joke, so quick with an answer, so unassuming, 
so utterly the antithesis of any master he had met before. 

There were one or two incidents that stood out clearer 
than any others in Gordon’s memories of his Chief. 

At the very beginning of the term, before a start had 
been made on the term’s work, the Chief was talking about 
Horace’s life and characteristics. 

“Now, Tester,” he said, “if you were asked to sum up 
Horace’s outlook on life in a single phrase, what would you 
say ?” 

Tester thought for a minute or so. 

“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” he haz- 
arded. 

The form laughed. It seemed rather a daring generalisa- 
tion. But the Chief’s answer came back pat: 

“Well, hardly that, Tester. Shall we say. Let us eat 
and drink, but not too much, or we shall have a stomach- 
ache to-morrow?” 

He had taken Tester’s quite erroneous estimate as a 
basis, and yet had exactly hit off Horace’s character. 

But the following incident more than any other brought 
home to Gordon how extraordinarily broadminded the 
Chief was. Carter was construing, and had made a most 
preposterous howler, it does not matter what. He had 


COMMON ROOM FACES 


195 

learnt the translation in the notes by heart, and quite failed 
to connect it verbatim with the Greek. 

‘‘There now, you see,” said the Chief, “how utterly 
absurd you are. You have not taken the trouble to look 
the words up in a dictionary. Just because you see what 
you think is a literal translation in the notes. There lies 
the fatal error of using cribs. Of course when I catch a 
boy in Shell or IV. A using one, I drop on him not only for 
slackness but dishonesty. The boy probably does not 
trouble to think about it, but he is taking an unfair advan- 
tage of the rest and getting promotion undeservedly. But 
in the Sixth Form you have got beyond that stage. We 
don’t worry much about marks here, so there is nothing 
immoral in using a crib. It is merely so silly. It tends to 
slack translation which in the end ruins scholarship. And 
by using the notes as you do, Carter, you are doing just the 
same thing. You really must use more common-sense. 
Go on, please, Harding.” 

Gordon was amazed at such a broadminded view of 
cribbing. He had long since grown weary of preachers who 
talked about dishonesty, without seeming to draw a line 
between active dishonesty and passive slackness. The 
Chief realised that it was deliberate slackness that led to 
dishonesty, not dishonesty that was incidentally slack. The 
Chief must be a very wise man. 

Nevertheless his admiration of the Chief did not make 
him do any more work than was strictly necessary; and 
Gordon began to drift into a peaceful academic groove, 
where he did just enough work to pass unnoticed — neither 
good nor bad. He had grown tired of ragging. It was 
such an effort, especially when the call of football was 
prodigal of every ounce of energy. To drift down-stream 
may spell mediocrity, but it also spells security, and, after 
all, there was little danger of Gordon becoming a mediocrity 
in other branches of school life. He was far too ambitious 
for that, but his ambitions were not academic. House 
politics and athletics were sufficient burdens for one man 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


196 

in one lifetime. ! rt Other heights in other lives” ; and 
Gordon believed in doing a few things well. 

It was more than lucky for Gordon’s future that this 
term he found himself a success on the football field. If he 
had not, he would probably have sought a prominent posi- 
tion in the eyes of the school by more doubtful paths; but 
as it was there was no need for him to plunge into wild 
escapades to get noticed. His football attracted quite 
enough attention. People spoke of his chances of getting 
into the Fifteen next year. The Milton match was his 
greatest triumph, mainly because the rest of the side did 
badly. Lovelace played back and made one or two fine 
runs when he got the ball, but as a whole the side played 
very half-heartedly. Burgoyne was quite off colour, and 
Collins’s excuse that he had been overworking lately did 
not save him from being kicked out of the side after the 
match. But Gordon, who had got his Colts’ badge on the 
morning of the match, and so was relieved of any anxieties 
about his place, played what he always said was his best 
game ; so much so, in fact, that Buller, after the match, said : 

“Rotten, absolutely rotten, with the exception of 
Caruthers, who played magnificently.” 

There was only one blot on his performance, and that, 
though everyone laughed about it, caused Gordon some 
regretful moments afterwards. Rightly or wrongly Gordon 
thought the opposite scrum half was not putting the ball 
in straight. Gordon told him what he thought of him. 

The scrum half called him “a bloody interfering ,” 

and told him to go to hell. The next time the scrum half 
got the ball Gordon flung him with unnecessary force, when 
he was already in touch, right into the ropes. And from 
then onwards the relations between Gordon and the scrum 
half were those of a scrapping match. Gordon came off 
best. He got a bruise on the left thigh, but no one could 
notice that, while his opponent had a bleeding nose and a 
cut lip. The school was amused, but Gordon overheard 
a Milton man say: “Well, I don’t think much of the way 


COMMON ROOM FACES 197 

these Fernhurst men play the game. Look at that tick 
of a forward there. Dirty swine !” 

After the game Gordon apologised to the half, and they 
both passed the usual compliments; but he could see that 
the rest of the Milton side were not at all pleased. 

He spoke to Mansell about it. 

“My dear man, don’t you worry. You played a jolly 
fine game this afternoon, and -if you go on like that you are 
a cert, for your Firsts next year. You played a damned 
hard game.” 

“Yes; but it is rather a bad thing for the school, isn’t 
it, if we get a reputation for playing rough?” 

“But you weren’t playing foul, and Buller always tells 
us to go hard and play as rough as we like.” 

“Yes ; but still ” 

He was not quite reassured, though everyone told him it 
was all right. However, if “the Bull” made no comment, 
it looked as if nothing could be wrong. As a matter of fact, 
“the Bull” had not noticed; and though Christy, in a 
fit of righteous indignation, poured out a long story to him, 
he only smiled. 

“Oh, well, I expect he got a bit excited. First time he 
had played footer for a school side. ... I was a bit fierce 
my first game for England. Don’t blame him. He’s 
a keen kid, and I am sure the other side did not mind.” 

Christy mumbled indistinctly. No one ever seemed to 
take much notice of what he said. That evening, how- 
ever, he and Rogers, over a glass of port, agreed that 
Caruthers was a thoroughly objectionable young fellow 
who ought to be taken in hand, and with this Christian 
sentiment to inspire him Rogers went home to put a few 
finishing touches to his sermon for the next day. 


CHAPTER XIII 


CARNIVAL 

T HE tradition of Pack Monday Fair at Fernhurst was 
almost as old as the School House studies. The legend, 
whether authenticated or not only Macdonald, the historian 
of Fernhurst, could say, was handed down from generation 
to generation. It was believed that, when the building of 
the Abbey was finished, all the masons, glass-workers and 
artificers packed up their tools and paraded the town with 
music and song, celebrating the glory of their accomplished 
work. And from time immemorial the townspeople had 
celebrated the second Monday in October by assembling 
outside the Abbey at midnight, and ushering in a day of 
marketing and revelry by a procession through the town, 
beating tin cans and blowing upon posthoms. With the 
exception of this ritual, the day had become merely an 
ordinary fair. But there was no sleeping on that Sunday 
night, and for the whole week tantalising sounds of shriek- 
ing merry-go-rounds, of whistling tramcars and thundering 
switchbacks were borne across the night to disturb those 
who were trying to work in hall. It used to be the custom 
for all the bloods to creep out at night and take part in the 
revels; but when the new Chief had come, four years 
before, he put a firm hand upon all such abuses, and had 
even threatened to expel anyone he found in the act, a 
threat which he had carried out promptly by expelling the 
best half-back in the school a fortnight before the Dulbridge 
match. And so now only a few daring spirits stole out in 
the small hours of the night on the hazardous expedition, 
and those courageous souls were the objects of the deepest 
veneration among the smaller boys, who would whisper 
quietly of their doings in the upper dormitories when 

198 


CARNIVAL 


199 

darkness lent a general security to the secrets that were 
being revealed. 

This term about three days before Pack Monday, Gordon, 
Mansell, Carter and a few others were engaged in their 
favourite hobby of shipping Rudd’s study. One chair had 
i l ready gone the way of all old wood, and the table was in 
danger of following it, when Rudd suddenly burst out: 

“Oh, you think yourselves damned fine fellows, six of 
you against one!” 

A roar of laughter went up. It was the traditional com- 
plaint of all weaklings in school stories, and was singularly 
of the preparatory school type of defence. 

“Jolly brave, aren’t you? I’d like to see any one of 
you do anything that might get you into trouble. I don’t 
mind betting there’s not one of you that would dare to 
come out with me to the fair next Monday.” 

There was an awkward pause. The challenge was so 
unconventional; and the Public School boy is not brought 
up to expect surprises. The only thing to do was to pass 
it off with a joke. 

Lovelace stepped into the breach. 

“Do you think any of us would go anywhere with a 
swine like you who does not wash? Dirty hog!” 

“Oh, of course you would not; you are afraid.” 

And then Gordon’s hatred of taking the second place, 
which had before led him into difficulties, once again 
asserted itself. “Damn it all,” he thought, “I am not 
going to be beaten by Rudd !” 

“Do you say we are all funks if we don’t go?” 

“Yes !” 

“All right then, damn you, I will go with you, just to 
show you that you are not the only person in this rotten 
school who’s fool enough to risk being bunked.” 

Rudd was rather taken aback. He had made the chal- 
lenge merely out of bravado. He had regretted it instantly. 
In the same spirit Gordon had accepted the challenge; he 
also wished he had not the moment afterwards. But both 
saw that they would have to go through with it now. 


200 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“Good man,” said Rudd, not to be outdone. “I wanted 
someone to go with me; rather lonely these little excur- 
sions without company.” 

He spoke with the air of one who spent every other night 
giving dinner-parties at the Eversham Tap. 

“Look here, you two,” broke in Mansell, “don’t make 
bloody fools of yourselves. You will only get the sack if 
you are caught, and you probably will get caught; you are 
sure to do something silly. For God’s sake, don’t go. It’s 
not worth it. Really, it is not!” 

“Oh, shut up; don’t panic,” was Gordon’s scornful 
answer; “we are going to have a jolly fine time, aren’t 
we, Rudd?” 

“Oh, splendid,” said Rudd, who wanted to laugh; the 
whole situation was fraught with such a perfectly impossible 
irony. 

“Oh, do have some sense, man.” Lovelace was impatient 
with him. “What is the use of rushing about at midnight 
in slouch hats with a lot of silly, shrieking girls ?” 

“You can’t understand, you live in the country. I am 
a Londoner. You want the true Cockney spirit that goes 
rolling drunk on Hampstead Heath on Easter Monday.” 

“Well, thank God, I do want it, then,” said Lovelace. 

Rumour flies round a house quickly. In hall several 
people came up and asked Gordon if it was true. They 
looked at him curiously with an expression in which surprise 
and admiration were curiously blended. The old love of 
notoriety swept over Gordon once more; he felt fright- 
fully bucked with himself. What a devil of a fellow he 
was, to be sure. He went round the studies in hall, pro- 
claiming his audacity. 

“I say, look here, old chap, you needn’t tell anyone, but 
I am going out to Pack Monday Fair ; it will be some rag !” 

The sensation he caused was highly gratifying. By 
prayers all his friends and most of his acquaintances knew 
of it. Of course they would keep it secret. But Gordon 
knew well that by break next day it would be round the 
outhouses, and he looked forward to the number of ques- 


CARNIVAL 


201 


tions he would get asked. To be the hero of an impending 
escapade was pleasant enough. 

“I say, Davenport,” he said in his dormitory that eve- 
ning, “I am going out to the fair on Monday.” 

Davenport said nothing, and showed no sign of surprise. 
Gordon, was disappointed. 

“Well, what do you think of it?” he said at last. 

“That you are a sillier ass than I thought you were,” 
said Davenport. 

And as Gordon lay thinking over everything in the 
dark, he came to the conclusion that Davenport was not 
so very far wrong after all. 

Cold and nervous, Gordon waited for Rudd in the dark 
boot-hole under the Chief’s study on Pack Monday night 
just before twelve. In stockinged feet he had crept down- 
stairs, opened the creaking door without making any ap- 
preciable noise, and then waited in the boot-room, which 
was filled with the odour of blacking and damp decay. 
There was a small window at the end of it, through which 
it was just possible to squeeze out on to the Chief’s front 
lawn. After that all was easy; anyone could clamber over 
the wall by the V. A green. 

There was the sound of feet on the stairs. It seemed to 
Gordon as if they were bound to wake the whole house. 
Rudd’s figure was for a second framed black in the door- 
way. 

Silently they wormed their way through the window. 
The damp soil of a flower bed was cold under their feet; 
with his hand Rudd smoothed out the footprints. 

They stole down the silent cloisters. Shadows came by 
leering at them; echoes were waked as from an infinite 
distance. The wall of the V. A green rose dark and sinister. 
At last breathless among the tombstones by the Abbey 
they slipped on their boots, turned up coat collars and drew 
their caps over their eyes. 

A minute later the glaring lights of the booths in Cheap 
Street engulfed them. They were jostled in the crowd. It 


202 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


was, after all, only Hampstead Heath on a small scale. 

<# Walk up, walk up! All the fun of the fair! Buy a 
teazer! Buy a teazer! Buy a teazer! Tickle the girls! 
Walk up! Try your luck at the darts, sir; now then, sir, 
come on!” 

The confused roar was as music to Gordon’s soul. He had 
the* Cockney love of a fair. The children of London are 
still true to the coster legends of the Old Kent Road. 

Gordon and Rudd did not stop long in Cheap Street. 
The real business was in the fair fields by Rogers’s house. 
This was only the outskirts. 

The next hour passed in a dream. Lights flared, rifles 
snapped at fugitive ping-pong balls leaping on cascades of 
water, swing-boats rose heavenwards, merry-go-rounds 
banged out rag-time choruses. Gordon let himself go. 
He and Rudd tried everything. After wasting half-a-crown 
on the cocoanuts, Rudd captured first go at the darts a 
wonderful vase decorated with the gilt legend, “A Present 
from Fernhurs’t,” and Gordon at the rifle range won a 
beautiful china shepherdess which held for days the admira- 
tion of the School House, until pining perhaps for its lover, 
which by no outlay of darts could Gordon secure, it became 
dislodged from the bracket and fell in pieces on the floor, 
to be swept away by Arthur, the school custos, into the 
perpetual darkness of the dustbin. 

Weary at last, the pair sought the shelter of a small 
cafe, where they luxuriously sipped lemonade. Faces arose 
out of the night, passed by and faded out again. The sky 
was red with pleasure, the noise and shrieks grew louder 
and more insistent. There was a dance going on. 

“I say, Rudd, do you dance?” 

“No, not much.” 

“Well, look here, I can, a bit; at any rate I am going 
to have a bit of fun over there. Let us go on our own for 
a bit. Meet me here at a quarter to four.” 

“Right,” said Rudd, and continued sipping the lurid 
poison that called itself American cream soda, and was in 
reality merely a cheap illness. 


CARNIVAL 


203 

Gordon walked in the direction of the dancing. The 
grass had been cut quite short in a circle, and to the time 
of a broken band the town dandies were whirling round, 
flushed with excitement and the close proximity of a female 
form. “The Maenads and the Bassarids,” murmured Gordon 
to himself, and cursed his luck for not knowing any of the 
girls. Disconsolately he wandered across to the Bijou 
Theatre, a tumble-down hut where a huge crowd was 
jostling and shouting. 

He ran into something and half apologised. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” a high-pitched voice shrieked ex- 
citedly. 

He turned round and saw the flushed face of a girl of 
about nineteen looking up at him. She was alone. 

“I say,” Gordon muttered nervously, “you look a bit 
lonely, come and have some ginger beer.” 

“Orl right. I don’t mind. Give us your arm !” 

They rolled off to a neighbouring stall, where Gordon 
stood his Juliet countless lemonades and chocolates. He 
felt very brave and grown-up, and thought contemptuously 
of Davenport in bed dreaming some fatuous dream, while 
he was engulfed in noise and colour. This was life. From 
the stall the two wandered to the swing-boats, and towering 
high above the tawdry glitter of the revel saw through the 
red mist the Abbey, austere and still, the School House 
dormitories stretching silent with suspended life, the class- 
rooms peopled with ghosts. 

A plank jarred under the boat. 

“Garn, surely it ain’t time to stop yet,” wailed Emmie. 

He had gathered enough courage to ask her her name. 

“Have another?” pleaded Gordon. 

“No ; let us try the lively thing over there. These boats 
do make me feel so funny-like.” 

The merry-go-round was just stopping. There was a 
rush for the horses. Gordon leapt on one, and leaning 
down caught Emmie up and sat her in front of him; she 
lay back in his arms in a languor of satisfied excitement. 
Her hair blew across his face, stifling him ; all round couples 


204 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


were hugging and squeezing. The sensuous whirl of the 
machine was acting as a narcotic, numbing thought. He 
caught her flushed, tired face in his hands and kissed 
her wildly, beside himself with the excitement of the mo- 
ment. 

“You don't mind, do you?” he murmured in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“Don’t be so silly; I have been waiting for that. Now 
we can get comfy-like.” 

Her arms were round his neck, her flushed face was hot 
on his, her hair hung over his shoulders. The strains of 
You Made Me Love You came inarticulate with passion out 
of the shrieking organ. Her elbow nudged him. Her lips 
were as fire beneath his. The machine slowed down and 
stopped. Gordon paid for five extra rounds. Dazed 
with new and hitherto unrealised sensations, Gordon forgot 
everything but the strange warm thing nestling in his arms ; 
and he abandoned himself to the passion of the moment. 

At last their time was up. Closely, her hair on his 
shoulder, they moved to the dancing circle, and plunged 
into the throng of the shouting, jostling dancers. Of the 
next two hours Gordon could remember nothing. He had 
vague recollections of streaming hair, of warm hands, and 
of fierce, wild kisses. Lights flickered, shot skywards, and 
went out. Forms loomed before him, a strange weariness 
came over him, he remembered flinging himself beside her 
in the grass and burying his face in her hair. She seemed 
to speak as from a*very long way off. Once more the dance 
caught them. Then Auld Lang Syne had struck up. Hands 
were clasped, a circle swayed riotously. There were 
promises to meet next night, promises that neither meant 
to keep. Rudd was waiting impatiently at the cafe. Once 
more the wall by the Abbey rose spectral, once more the 
cloisters echoed vaguely. The boot-hole window creaked. 

As the dawn broke tempestuously in the sky Gordon fell 
across his bed, his brain tired with a thousand memories, all 
fugitive, all vague, all exquisitely unsubstantial. 


CARNIVAL 


205 

With heavy, tired eyes Gordon ran down to breakfast 
a second before time. He felt utterly weary, exhausted, 
incapable of effort. People came up and asked him in 
whispers if everything had turned out well. He answered 
absentmindedly, incoherently. 

“I don't believe you went there at all,” a voice jeered. 

Gordon did not reply. He merely put his hand in his 
pocket and pulled out the china shepherdess that he was 
about to place on the rickety study bracket. 

Doubt was silenced. 

The long hours of morning school passed by on leaden 
feet; he seemed unable to answer any question right; even 
the Chief was annoyed. 

Rain fell in torrents. The Colts game was scratched. 

On a pile of cushions laid on the floor Gordon slept away 
the whole afternoon. From four to six he had to write a 
Greek Prose in his study. The tea bell scattered his dreams. 
He rose languidly, with the unpleasant sensation of work 
unfinished. 

The row of faces at tea seemed to frighten him. He felt 
as if he had awakened out of a nightmare, that still held 
on to him with cold, clammy hands, and was trying to 
draw him back once more into its web. Visions rose before 
him of shrieking showmen’s booths, blinking with tawdry 
yellow eyes. Emmie’s hoarse laugh grated on his ears; 
he was overwrought and wanted to shout, to shriek, to 
give some vent to his feelings. But he seemed chained to 
the long bench, and his tongue was tied so that he could 
only mouth out silly platitudes about the weather and the 
Fifteen’s chances. 

On his way back to the studies he felt an arm laid in his. 
He shivered and turned round, half expecting to see Emmie’s 
flushed, excited face peering up at him. He almost sighed 
with relief when he found it was Tester. 

“Look here, just come for a stroll round the courts. The 
rain’s stopped. I want to talk to you.” 

They wandered out under the lindens. 

“I suppose you did go out last night, didn’t you?” 


20 6 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“Yes.” 

“Well, what on earth did you do it for?” 

“I am sick of the whole affair/’ Gordon said petulantly. 
“Rudd called the lot of us funks, so ” 

“I know that tale quite well,” Tester broke in. “I 
have heard all about it. I want to know why you went 
out. At least I don’t mean that. I mean to tell you why 
you went out, because I don’t think you know yourself. 
Look here, Caruthers, you have made an awful fool of your- 
self. You have run the risk of getting sacked, merely 
because you wanted to be talked about.” 

“I didn’t. I went because I was jolly well not going to 
have Rudd calling me a funk.” 

“Comes to the same thing in the end, doesn’t it? You 
did not want to play second fiddle; you didn’t want Rudd 
to appear to have scored. You wanted to be the central 
figure. Much the same, isn’t it? The love of notoriety.” 

Gordon murmured something inaudible. 

“And it is all so damned silly. You are running the risk 
of getting the sack, and for nothing at all. Really, I can 
understand quite well anyone being drawn into anything 
dangerous by a strong emotion or feeling. It is natural. 
Masters say we should curb our natures. I don’t know if 
they are right. That’s neither here nor there. There was 
nothing natural in what you did. It was merely rotten im- 
becility — your self-consciousness, your fear of not seeming 
to have done the right thing. Look here, Caruthers, you 
can’t go on like this. I own that this term you have been 
more or less sane. The last two terms I have often won- 
dered what was going to happen to you. You had no bal- 
ance; you kept on doing silly little things so as to hold the 
attention of a more stupid audience. This term you have 
stopped that sort of rot. But what is the use of it going to 
be, if you go and do things like this on the impulse of the 
moment, merely because you don’t want to look silly? My 
good man, you can’t think how much more silly you look by 
playing the ruddy ass during the small hours inside a stink- 
ing booth! You can’t afford to do that sort of thing. 


CARNIVAL 


207 

Your ambition is to be captain of the House, and not a 
bad ambition either. But do you realise that if you are 
going to be a real power in the House, if you are going to 
fight the masters, as you say you will, you can’t afford to 
fling away points? You must appear impregnable. DonT 
be an ass. A master holds all the high cards. If you play 
into his hand, he has you done to the world. Suppose you 
were caught going out at night your last year, what would 
happen? You might get the sack at once; and all 
your rebellion would be wasted. And, mark you, a rebellion 
is wanted. There is real need of a man who has the strength 
of his opinions and sticks out. What’s the use of it if you 
go and get sacked? Of course, they might keep you on, 
and ask you to go at the end of the term to save your face. 
What would your position be then? You would be bound 
hand and foot, powerless to do anything. Life would slip 
past you. You have got to be above suspicion. Think, 
however much you may want to do a thing now, however 
much praise you may think an action of yours would get, 
stop and consider how it will appear two years hence. A 
really serious row might knock you out for the rest of your 
time here: a bad name sticks. Remember that. Think 
of the day when you are going to be a real power, and stand 
up for the independence of the individual to think as he 
likes, not as Buller likes; for the independence of the 
House to run itself. ‘The Bull’ runs our house to-day. 
You hear men say, *We can’t do that, Buller would be 
sick!’ You have to free them of Buller’s tyranny, if you 
are going to be a man; and if you do, you can’t fight in 
rusty armour. These masters may be fools, but they have 
the cards.” 

Gordon listened to Tester’s flow of words. He was 
furious, and sat back in his chair fuming, and cursing most 
of hall. But when at last lights were put out and he lay 
back in bed and watched the stars steadfast in love and 
splendour, and the moon immutable, enigmatic, smiling 
quietly, he appreciated the truth of Tester’s argument. A 
great battle was before him; he would have to go into 


208 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


it strong and prepared at every point. There must be no 
chink in his coat of mail. 

Some day his hour would come; till then he had to wait 
in patience, and during the long vigil he would keep his 
shield clean of rust and his armour a flaming fire. He would 
have to think, to weigh his decision, to keep before his 
eyes the goal towards which his ambition was set. 


CHAPTER XIV 


BROADENING OUTLOOK 

L IKE a huge reel of thread the long winter term unrolled 
itself. November drifted by with its gusty winds that 
shrieked in the empty cloisters. December came with its 
dark mornings and steadily falling rains. The First Fifteen 
matches were over. Dulbridge and, Tonford had both 
been beaten handsomely; Mansell had got his Firsts. The 
Colts drew at Limborne, and finished their season with 
an overwhelming victory over Weybridge. House games 
began again, and the Thirds and Two Cock became the only 
possible topics of conversation. During the first half of 
the term Hazelton, as was inevitable, had had to spend 
nearly all his time in First Fifteen puntabouts and upper 
ground games. The House had seen little of him. But 
now, with all the big matches over, and only the old Fern- 
hurstians’ match to come on the last Saturday of the term, 
he had time to devote all his energies to the training of 
house sides. If he had not talked so much he would have 
been one of the strong, silent Englishmen. For to all out- 
ward appearances he was taciturn, unimaginative, self- 
willed. But he had a very nasty tongue, and never hesitated 
to use it at the expense of his enemies. As a house captain 
he was a distinct success. He knew the game well, and 
was able to inspire a keenness that was not jingoistic. He 
also had the rare virtue of knowing where to stop. He 
never made sides play on till they were speechless with 
fatigue, as some over-enthusiastic house captains had been 
known to do. He was very popular with his sides. 

Every evening before hall there congregated in Gordon’s 
study all the old faces of his first year, with one or two new 

209 


2.10 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


ones. Nowhere so easily as at a Public School does one 
find oneself drifting apart from an old acquaintance; not 
for any real reason, not for any quarrel, but merely because 
circumstances seem to will it so. But when the thought of 
House matches returned, the old lot came back together to 
fight their battles over again, and to dream of the silver 
cups glittering below the statue of Edward VI. They were 
all there: Hunter, who had seemed to pass almost out of 
Gordon’s life since he had begun to play in the Fifteen; 
Mansell, who now spent much of his time with Hazelton; 
Betteridge, who was more often than not with Harding. 
No. i Study was very convenient. Roll was held just 
outside, and when the prefect’s voice was heard calling the 
first name the door would be flung open, and still reclining 
in arm-chairs they shouted out the immemorial “sum.” 
About five minutes before the hour of roll-call juniors 
from the day-room and the farther studies would begin to 
collect round the hot pipes in the passage, fearful of being 
late. Then in No. i Lovelace would wind up the gramo- 
phone, and the strains of When the Midnight Choo-choo 
Leaves for Alabama broke out with deafening and unmusical 
violence. The concert lasted till the first strokes of the 
hour had boomed out. Roll over, they all separated to 
their various studies. Lovelace took out his Sportsman 
and began to total up his winnings; Gordon either lay 
full length in the hammock, a new and much envied acquisi- 
tion which was slung across from door to window, and read 
for the hundredth time the haunting melodies of Rococo , 
or else, as was more usual, wandered round the studies 
with the magnificent air of indifference that marked all 
members of the Sixth. 

Then came prayers; after which Gordon and Davenport 
made for the seclusion of their double dormitory. Lights 
were out at nine-fifteen for the big upper dormitories, and 
till then they used to wander down the passage for the 
ostensible reason of getting hot water, but in reality to 
watch, with the superior air of Olympians, the life of 
lesser breeds. They imagined themselves great bloods 


BROADENING OUTLOOK 21 r 

during these few minutes after prayers. Sometimes when 
the House tutor was supposed to be out they would join 
in a game of football in the passage; but as they were 
caught once and each got a Georgic, this pastime lost its 
charm. Usually they lolled in the doorway with a perfect 
superiority, and talked of the old “rags” and discom- 
fitures of two years back, for the benefit of admiring lis- 
teners. 

“Do you remember when Mansell slept in that bed?” 
Gordon would say. 

“No; I was not here that term,” Davenport would reply; 
“but I sha’n’t forget when the Chief found Betteridge’s 
bed pitched on the floor, with Betteridge underneath and 
Lovelace sitting on top.” 

Was it possible, thought some small fry, that the great 
Mansell, who played for the Fifteen, had once actually 
slept in the same bed as he occupied now ? Had Betteridge, 
who had only that night given half the day-room a hundred 
lines, once had his bed shipped on that very floor! It all 
seemed like a gigantic fairy story. And to think that 
Caruthers had seen these things! 

But they were not long, these moments of the assump- 
tion of the godhead. Darkness soon fell on the long 
passage, and only whispered talking sounded faint and 
far away. Gordon and Davenport then went back to their 
room, and on evenings after a hard game they had a small 
supper. They had managed to discover a loose board, and 
the floor space caused by its removal served as a cupboard, 
a cupboard so damp and unhealthy that the most lenient 
sanitary inspector must infallibly have condemned it. 
Here, just before afternoon school, they secreted ginger 
beer bottles, a loaf of bread, butter, some tomatoes and 
a chunk of Gorgonzola cheese. In the morning they carried 
away the bottles in their pockets. It would have been 
much easier and much more comfortable to have had a 
meal in their study, but then it would have lacked the savour 
of romance. The rule forbidding the importation of food 
into the dormitories was very strict. At the end of the 


212 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


term, when both were going to leave that particular room, 
they nailed down the board, so that no other marauder 
should imitate them. They wished to be unique. But 
before they did so, they put in the mouldy cupboard a 
lemonade bottle and one of the blue Fernhurst roll-books 
for the Michaelmas Term, 1913. They underlined their 
names in it, and left it as a memento of a few happy 
evenings. 

“I wonder,” said Caruthers, “if years hence someone 
will pull up that board and find the book, and seeing our 
names will wonder who we were.” 

“Perhaps,” said Davenport. “And, you know, they may 
try and find out something about us in back numbers of 
The Fernhurstian, or in the photographs of house sides. 
Do you think they will be able to find out anything about 
us?” 

“I hope so; but how little we know even of the bloods 
about 1905, and round there! And as likely as not we 
sha’n’t ever be bloods. It will be rather funny if some day 
it should happen that of all the things we have done nothing 
remains but the blue roll-book.” 

“Funny?” said Davenport. “Rather pathetic, I should 
say.” 

At fifteen one is apt to be sentimental. 

Perhaps some rude fingers have already torn up that 
board; perhaps even now some new generation of Fern- 
hurstians is using it as a receptacle for tobacco, or cheese, 
or any other commodity contrabrand to the dormitories. 
But perhaps underneath a board in No. 1 double dormitory 
there still repose that identical lemonade bottle and the 
roll-book with its blue cover, now sadly faded and its leaves 
turned up with age, to serve as Gordon's epitaph, when all 
his other deeds have perished in oblivion. 

There is perhaps nothing that has made so many friend- 
ships as a big row, or the prospect of one. We always feel 
in sympathy with people whose aims are identical with 
our own, and the principals in some big row or some big 


BROADENING OUTLOOK 


213 

escapade cannot help being bound close together by common 
ties. A mutual danger has brought together many ill- 
assorted pairs, and among others it showed Gordon and 
Rudd that they had something in common with one another. 
Gordon had always looked upon Rudd as a “perfectly 
guileless ass,” who was no good at games, did nothing for 
the House, and was only useful as the universal provider 
of cribs. But after the Pack Monday Fair incident Gordon 
saw that there was in Rudd a something which, if not 
exactly to be admired, came very near it. It was a daring 
thing to challenge anyone who was willing to come to the 
fair with him, and he had not shown the slightest wish to* 
back out of his agreement. Gordon decided to make his 
better acquaintance, and in the process was brought face 
to face with another fresh character, a type that was to 
set before him different aims and standards. For Gordon 
was sharp enough to see more or less below the surface. 
Rudd was quite a new type to him. It was clear that he 
had some merits, especially pluck; and yet he was no good 
at games, and, what was more extraordinary, did not seem 
in the least worried about his failures. Gordon had always 
pitied those who could not scrape into the Thirds. 

“Poor devils !” he used to say in the arrogance of his 
own self-satisfaction. “I expect they tried just as much 
as we did. And it must be pretty awful for them to realise 
that they are no real use at games at all.” 

He had never thought it possible that anyone with the 
slightest claims to respectability should be quite indifferent 
to athletic success. But Rudd was, after all, a presentable 
fellow, and yet he did not mind in the least. 

It was all very strange. 

Only by trying to see the points of view of others do we 
get any real idea of the trend of human thought. It is 
quite useless to start life with fixed standards, and try to 
bring everyone to realise their virtues. We must have some 
standard, it is true, or we should be as rudderless boats; 
but it is of paramount importance that our standards 
should be sufficiently elastic to include new movements; 


214 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


and not until we have tried and weighed in the balance, 
and considered and sifted the philosophies of others, should 
we attempt to form a philosophy for ourselves. 

By nature Gordon was arrogant and self-satisfied; but 
by meeting types different from himself and in their com- 
pany gaining glimpses of goals other than his own, his 
character was undoubtedly broadened, his horizon ex- 
tended, and he managed to get things into better proportion. 

For several people just at this time were influencing 
Gordon. But none more so than Ferrers. Ever since the 
Stoics debate Gordon had become a profound admirer of 
the new master, who had banged into the cloistered Fern- 
hurst life, bubbling over with the ideas of the rising genera- 
tion, intolerant of prejudice and tradition, clamorous for 
reform. It was a great sight to see him walking about the 
courts. He was nearly always dressed the same, in his 
blue woollen waistcoat, soft collar and serge suit. He never 
walked anywhere without at least two books under his arm. 
He was recognisable at once. If a stranger had glanced 
round the courts in break, and had been asked afterwards 
if any of the masters had attracted his attention at all, he 
might perhaps have mentioned “the Bull's” splendid, 
powerful roll; with a smile he might have remarked on 
the prelatical Rogers, stalking like Buckingham “half in 
heaven.” There were six or seven he might have noticed, 
but there was only one person whom he must have seen, 
whom he could not possibly have failed to pick out immedi- 
ately, and that was Ferrers. Personality was written on 
every feature of his face, every movement was typical of 
youthful vigour and action. His half-contemptuous swing 
suggested a complete scorn of everything known before 
1912. He was the great god of Gordon's soul, greater even 
than Lovelace major had been, far greater than Meredith. 

As he sat listening to Finnemore discussing artistic 
questions in form, he felt wildly impatient to hear Ferrers's 
opinion. Nothing seemed settled definitely until Ferrers 
had spoken, and only the Army and Matriculation classes 
had the tremendous advantages of doing English with him. 


BROADENING OUTLOOK 


215 

Most of Ferrers’s time was wasted in attempts to drive 
home mathematical theories into the dense brain of a lower 
school set. 

As to his influence in the school there could be no two 
opinions. The bloods, of course, were too completely 
settled in their grooves of Philistinism and self-worship to 
feel the force of innovation. But even on a mild character 
like Foster’s his effect was startling. Ferrers’s great theory 
was : “Let boys take their own time. The adage that it 
does a boy good to do what he hates may be all right for 
classics, but it is no good to try that game with literature. 
Find out what a boy likes. Encourage him, show you are 
in sympathy with his taste, and once in his confidence 
gradually lead him step by step to the real stuff. He will 
follow you, if you only make out you like what he likes. 
A boy hates the superior attitude of ‘Oh, quite good in its 
way, of course.’ A master must get to the boy’s level; 
it is fatuous to try and drag the boy to his at once.” And 
there is abundant proof to show that this plan was a suc- 
cess. When Ferrers first came, Foster, for example, read 
nothing but Kipling and Guy Boothby. During his last 
term Gordon found him absorbed in Vanity Fair and The 
Duchess of Malfi. It would be difficult to over-estimate 
the good Ferrers did at Fernhurst. From afar Gordon 
worshipped him. He learnt from Foster what Ferrers had 
read to his form and what he recommended them to read, 
and as soon as he could he would go and buy the book. 
The school book-shop about this time began to find in 
Gordon its most generous patron. At times Gordon would 
tell Foster to ask Ferrers questions that interested him. 
And the answers, usually a little vague and elastic, spurred 
Gordon on to fresh fields. His taste was beginning to 
grow, and football “shop” was no longer his only topic of 
conversation. 


CHAPTER XV 


THIRDS 


HERE was only one thing that at all worried Gordon 



JL just now, and that was the behaviour of the Hazlitt 
brethren. Mention has already been made of this couple. 
During their first few terms they gave every promise of 
developing into the very worst types that banality and ath- 
letic success can produce, and these expectations had been 
abundantly fulfilled. The elder brother had his points, but 
they were few, the chief one being that he was fairly good 
at games, which, after all, is but a negative quality. But 
the younger, who was as useless as he was generally offi- 
cious, was entirely devoid of any redeeming feature. His 
ways were the ways of a slum child playing in the gutter, 
and his sense of humour was limited to shouting rude re- 
marks after other people, knocking off hats, and then run- 
ning away. His language was foul enough to disgust even 
a Public School’s taste. Gordon loathed him. One evening 
he and Lovelace discussed the child. 

“Look here,” said Gordon, “it’s no good, this. That 
unutterable little tick Hazlitt knocked off my hat as I was 
looking at the notice-board to-day, and I am not going to 
stand it. By the time I had turned round he was half-way 
across the courts.” 

“The little swine ! He is not fit to be in a decent school. 
If he can’t get rid of the habits he learnt with street cads 
in the holidays of his own accord, he’ll have to be kicked 
out of them. We will wait for him one day, and if we see 
him knock a School House straw off, my God, we will 
boot him to blazes I” 

“Right you are. It won’t be bullying. It will be treating 
a dirty beast in the only way he can understand.” 


THIRDS 


217 


About three days later, from their study window, they 
saw Hazlitt minor proceeding to the notice-board after 
lunch. They left their study and walked into the cloisters. 

Hazlitt minor read the notices, discovered that, as he was 
posted on no game, he must of necessity take himself to 
the “pick-up,” and then looked round. Davenham was 
conscientiously perusing a notice, although there was no 
likelihood of his own name appearing on any. (It is almost 
true to say that nobody looked at the board except the 
people about whom there are no notices to read.) There 
was an announcement four days old to the effect that 
C. J. Mansell had been presented with his First Fifteen 
colours. Davenham seemed to find it vastly interesting. 
Hazlitt stole up behind, and knocked his hat flying across 
the cloister. In a second Gordon and Lovelace were on 
him. They did not care in the very least what happened 
to Davenham. He played no part in their life at all. But 
a School House man had been “cheeked” by a filthy little 
outhouse swab. These aliens had to be taught their place. 

“What do you mean by that, you awful tick?” shouted 
Lovelace. “Davenham, go and fetch a hockey stick from 
Tester's study.” 

Hazlitt let out with his feet and caught Gordon on the 
ankle, but the horrible hack he got in return quieted him. 

Davenham appeared with a hockey stick. 

Gordon managed to get Hazlitt's head between his knees, 
and Lovelace began to give that worthy a beating he was 
never likely to forget. In a few minutes he was blubbering 
for mercy. Fletcher passed by. 

“Here you are, Archie,” yelled Gordon; “come and have 
a shot at this swine Hazlitt; we are teaching him that he 
can't go about knocking off School House hats with im- 
punity.” 

“Right you are, my lads.” 

By the time Archie had finished, Hazlitt had almost 
collapsed. Gordon let him go, and with a hefty boot sent 
him flying into the cloisters. 


2l8 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“I don't think we shall have any more of him for a bit,” 
said Lovelace, with satisfaction. 

“No; these outhouse lads want showing their place from 
time to time. The School House, after all, is the place. 
We are like Rome, the mother city; the other outhouses 
are merely provinces of ours. Jolly good of us to let them 
use our buildings at all. Come and change ; we have done 
a good deed, my friends.” 

But the matter did not end there. That evening in 
Buller’s dormitories Hazlitt told a story of how Caruthers 
had been bullying him for no reason, and hacking him till 
he could hardly sit down. He left out Lovelace’s name, 
because Lovelace was popular with the Buller’s crowd. 
News of this reached Felston, the second prefect. He fumed 
with rage, and sought Gregory, the Buller’s house captain. 

“Have you heard the latest? That swine Caruthers has 
been bullying Hazlitt. He drove him all round the cloisters, 
hitting him with a hockey stick.” 

“Good God, the swine! Did he really? My word, I 
will lay him out in the Three Cock. You wait, that’s all. 
When he plays in the Three Cock, I’ll lay him out for dead 
in the first ten minutes.” 

In due course this story found its way to the Buller’s 
day- room, where was great rejoicing. So Caruthers was 
going to be laid out, was he ? How damned funny ! Hazlitt’s 
heart leapt within him. His evil little mind pictured Gordon 
being carried off the field, absolutely smashed up. He 
gloated. 

Gordon laughed when he heard of it. 

“Oh, well, at any rate I shall have my shot at them 
first in the Thirds and Two Cock.” 

He was secretly rather pleased to see that even his 
enemies had not the slightest doubt about his getting a 
place in the Three Cock. A House cap was just then his 
great ambition. But for all that he suffered considerable 
annoyance. Whenever he went up to the tuck-shop a voice 
from the Buller’s doorway croaked : “Wait for the Three 
Cock!” 


THIRDS 


219 

At first it was rather amusing. But soon it got distinctly 
tiresome. Deep in his heart he cursed the tick Hazlitt and 
the whole Buller crowd. A joke could be carried to an 
extreme. And it slowly dawned on him that, if he did 
play in the Three Cock, he was in for a remarkably thin 
time. 

Almost the last words he heard as the eight-forty swept 
out of Fernhurst station on the last morning, with its 
waving hands and shoutings, was a shriek from the Buller’s 
day-room: “Wait for the Three Cock!” Gordon laughed 
for a second, and then looked bored. The jest had ceased 
to have a shred of humour left upon it. It was naked and 
ought to be ashamed. 

The Easter term opened in the conventional way with 
rain, slush and influenza. The fields were flooded, the 
country a lake; the bare branches dripped incessantly. 
But for all that the first round of the Thirds began on the 
first Saturday. 

Buller’s drew Rogers's. There was no doubt as to the 
result. It would be a walk-over for Buller’s, though Bur- 
goyne might get over the line once or twice. 

There was a crowd in front of the pavilion. 

“Well, do something, at any rate,” said Gordon. “Don't 
let Buller’s get above themselves. You keep them in order.” 

“Oh yes, we’ll sit on them!” laughed Burgoyne. “By 
the way, I think it would be rather a good scheme to lay 
out Hazlitt minor, don’t you ?” 

Never did any forward in any house match at Fernhurst 
take the field without the sworn intention of laying out 
some hated opponent. Nevertheless during the whole time 
Gordon was at school only one boy was hurt so badly that 
he had to leave the field. And that was an accident. He 
broke his collar-bone falling over by the goal-posts. It 
had become almost a custom to state whom you were going 
to lay out before the match. The idea sounds brutal, but 
it never led to anything. Gordon knew this as well as 
anyone. 


220 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“Good man ! And look here, if you do, I will give you a 
bob.” 

“A bargain?” 

“Of course.” 

“Right, my lad. We will have a good supper to-nighf 
in my study.” 

The match followed the ordinary course. Frenzied 
juniors rushed up and down the touch-line inarticulate 
with excitement; the bloods, strolling arm in arm, patron- 
ised the game mildly. Buller’s won very easily. Hazlitt 
played quite decently and scored once. Burgoyne went 
supperless. 

The second and third rounds were played; everywhere 
Buller’s triumphed. No house was beaten by less than 
forty points. Not a try was scored against them. Christy’s, 
who had lost by forty-four points to nil, had, as the least 
unsuccessful house, the doubtful honour of joining forces 
with Buller’s to play the School House in the final. 

The betting was fairly even. Buller’s thought they 
would win; the House, as usual, was certain of victory. 
The school expected a level game, and on the whole wanted 
to see a School House win. Buller’s had had too much 
success of late years ; and envy was inevitably at work. 

The selection of the combined outhouse side caused a 
lot of consideration. There was once an idea of playing 
Hazlitt minor, but much to the annoyance of the House 
this plan was, from the outhouse point of view, wisely 
dropped. And now Jack Whitaker — he was always known 
as Jack — enters the story. 

Jack was a very decent sort of kid, much (in the School 
House estimation) above the standard of Buller’s day- 
room. He was a little rowdy and ostentatious, but had the 
justification of being really good at something. He was 
a promising half-back, and his cricket was so good that 
there was talk of his getting a trial for the School Eleven. 
Gordon and he got on rather well. But he was very young ; 
under fifteen, in fact, and very impetuous. 

About a week before the Thirds “the Bull” was dis- 


THIRDS 221 

cussing the match in the dormitories. Jack was very full 
of words. 

“1 say, sir, isn’t it awfully lucky for Hazlitt that he is 
not playing?” 

“The Bull” was surprised. Only that evening he had 
been talking with Hazlitt, and telling him how sorry he was 
that there was no place for him in the side. 

“Why, Jack? I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Oh, well, you see, sir, all the School House fellows had 
sworn to lay him out!” 

“You must not talk like that, Jack. It is not sporting. 
And it stirs up ill feeling in the school. You can’t honestly 
believe that any gentleman would play a game in that 
spirit. You have no proof of what you say except mere 
rumour, I suppose. You mustn’t talk like that.” 

“The Bull” was not at all pleased, and walked aWay 
to turn out the light. Whitaker saw he had gone too far 
and had said more than he meant to. But he couldn’t 
stand the idea that “the Bull” should think he had been 
repeating merely idle chatter. 

“But, sir, I know for certain that in the Christy’s match 
the School House men were offering money to Christy’s 
to lay Hazlitt out.” 

Buller stopped with his hand on the gas-tap. 

“That is a very serious accusation, Jack. Are you telling 
me that any Femhurst boys so lack sportsmanlike feeling 
as to bribe boys in other houses to lay out their rivals, SO' 
that it will be easier for them to win.” 

“Oh, sir, I don’t think that they meant that.” 

“Well, you said it, at any rate.” 

The gas went out suddenly. “The Bull” strode out 
without saying good-night. In his study he turned over 
in his mind the extraordinary story he had heard. If 
what Jack had told him was the truth, Fernhurst football, 
which was to him, and to many others, the finest thing in 
the world, had become little better than league professional- 
ism. Bribes were being offered for men to be laid out. He 
had never heard of such a thing. There was no one to 


222 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


remind him that the offering of bribes means little to a 
schoolboy, and the mere talk of “laying people out” still 
less. It is all a question of custom, of the sense in which 
phrases are used by the particular speakers who use them. 

There are certain words which to-day are vulgar and 
disgusting, but which in the days of Shakespeare would 
have been used in any company without a blush. And this 
is so merely because time has given the words a different 
significance. Indeed, from the point of view of the average 
person, to leave schoolmasters out of the question, the idea 
of offering bribes to lay out athletes is revolting. And 
so it is. It is unsportsmanlike, unworthy of English tra- 
ditions. But when Gordon offered Burgoyne a shilling to 
lay out Hazlitt, although he said it was a bargain, he 
meant nothing at all by his offer. He knew Burgoyne. 
When once he got on the field, he could think of nothing 
but the game, and forgot all about Hazlitt and himself. 
Everyone offered bribes, but no one had been known to 
receive a penny of them. .Still, Buller could not be expected 
to know this. He saw in the affair a menace to the future 
of Fernhurst sport. Jack’s story might be only idle chatter, 
or it might have some foundation. At any rate he had 
got to go to the bottom, and sift out the truth for the good 
of Fernhurst. 

After evening chapel on the Sunday before the match 
the Chief sent for Gordon; when Gordon arrived he found 
Harding, the head of the House, there too. The chief 
looked worried. There was a row in prospect. Gordon 
racked his brain to think of anything that could possibly 
have been found out about him. Of course there were 
many old troubles that might have been raked up. He 
had always realised that the hand of the past would still 
be near the shoulder of the present. Yet, what had he 
been doing recently? 

“Isn’t Hazelton coming, Harding?” The Chief was 
speaking. 

“Yes, sir; but I believe he is collecting chapel cards.” 

Hazelton too. Complications, forsooth. There was an 


THIRDS 


223 

awkward pause. Then Hazelton came in, quite at his ease. 

“Sir, the chapel cards; and I believe you wanted to see 
me, sir?” 

“Ah, yes, Hazelton; put the cards on my desk. Now, 
Caruthers, I want to ask you a question before the head 
and captain of the House that I hope you will answer 
truthfully. Did you offer a boy in Mr. Christy's house 
money to 'lay out/ I believe that was the phrase, a boy 
in Mr. Buller’s house in the recent house match?” 

Gordon thought for a moment. H&d he? It was quite 
likely he had; but he could not remember. Then the 
scene came back. The crowd in front of the pavilion. Bur- 
goyne : Hazlitt in the offing. 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, after the instant's hesitation. 

“You seem rather doubtful about it.” 

“Well, sir, I was trying to remember whether I had or 
not.” 

The Chief was nettled by such apparent callousness. 

“You talk as if you were in the habit of offering such 
rewards. Are you ?” 

“Well, sir, it is the sort of thing any fellow might do.” 

“That is neither here nor there. I doubt the truth of 
your statement very much. But even if the school had 
become so generally demoralised as you suggest, that would 
not be any excuse for you. As a matter of fact, how much 
did you offer the boy?” 

“A shilling, sir.” 

“Was that a genuine offer, now? If he had done what 
you wanted him to, would you have paid him?” 

Gordon was now well out of his depth. Explanation 
seemed impossible. Had the offer been genuine? He 
supposed it had. If the tick had been laid out, Gordon 
would have been so delighted that he would have stood the 
whole of Christy’s drinks all round. 

“Yes, sir,” he said quite cheerfully. 

A smile that rose to Hazelton's lips was instantly sup- 
pressed. 

“Ah ! rather like hiring assassins in the cheap novelettes. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


224 

What was your idea? Did you think Hazlitt would have 
been a help to the School side?” 

“No, sir. I hardly think he would have been of much 
assistance to them.” 

The idea of Hazlitt being of any use to anyone was very 
amusing. Gordon always saw the funny side of every- 
thing. As a ghost, he would probably have found some^v 
thing cynically amusing in his own funeral. 

“Then you did it merely out of spite, I suppose. Do you 
consider that the football field is a suitable opportunity for 
the paying-off of old scores?” 

Now, suppose Gordon had poured out the story of how 
Felston had sworn to lay him out in the Three Cock, and 
how Hazlitt and others flung the words “Three Cock” 
into his face for half a term, it would have been certainly 
an extenuation. But he realised that Hazelton was present. 
It would not be the proper thing, it would indeed be un- 
pardonable cheek, for him to talk in the presence of the 
House captain as though his chances of playing in the 
Three Cock were to be taken for granted. It would be 
madness to imperil his chances on the football field, merely 
because he wanted an excuse for a silly little row. 

And so he did not answer. 

“Well, Caruthers, I sha’n’t want you any more. Thank 
you for being so frank in the matter. As far as I can see, 
it is the only extenuating circumstance. Harding, Hazelton, 
just a minute.” 

Gordon returned to the studies rather amused than dis- 
concerted. He quite saw that the Chief, with his high 
ideals, would refuse to allow two blacks to make a white, 
even if that black were of the grey-black shade of which 
colour boys were allowed to get their school suits made, 
and which produced anything from light grey to dark 
brown. He understood and respected the Chief’s point 
of view entirely. But with “the Bull” he was furious. 
No one but “the Bull” could have reported him; and, 
after all, “the Bull” was an old Fernhurstian. He knew 
the school customs, and unless his memory was decaying, 


THIRDS 


225 

must have remembered the wild way in which boys boast. 
He must have known it; but ‘‘for the sake of Fernhurst,” 
Buller would say, “this leprosy had to be rooted out.” 
Gordon began to wonder whether it was really a love of 
Fernhurst that was his standard for all actions, or simply 
a supreme egotism, which embraced alternately his own 
interest, his house’s interest, and Fernhurst’ s interest, but 
never, under any circumstances, never the School House 
interest ! 

Hazelton thought much the same. At the Chief’s request 
he made a characteristic speech to the House after prayers. 

“Someone who imagines himself a sportsman, and who 
refuses to disclose his name, but whose identity we can 
only guess at, has been making some silly remarks about 
certain play and behaviour in the House. Of course that 
is all rot. But people have strange ideas, especially those 
in authority, and we have to be very careful. So for 
heaven’s sake don’t go shouting out that you are going to 
lay everyone out. It only means a row, and, after all, you 
can do it just as well without talking about it.” 

There was a roar of laughter; the old system survived. 

Next morning in break Gordon passed Buller on his way 
to the tuck-shop. “The Bull” cut him dead. 

The day after, the Chief, having made up his mind on the 
matter, told Gordon that his Sixth Form privileges had 
been taken away. 

Before a large crowd, in full view of Chief’s study win- 
dow, Gordon that afternoon burnt his straw hat with the 
Sixth form ribbon on it, and stood over the smouldering 
ashes proclaiming in tragic tones : “The glory has departed 
from Israel.” His old passion for a theatrical piece of 
rodomontade was not yet subdued. 

For a short time Gordon was rather worried about 
“l’affaire Hazlitt,” as Tester called it. But he soon forgot 
it entirely in the excitement of the approaching match. 
Everyone talked about it; there was no other topic of 
conversation. The night before the match Lovelace could 


226 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


not sit still for a minute. He strode up and down the 
study murmuring to himself: ‘‘We can’t lose; we can’t; 
we can’t!” Someone looked in to ask if he was going to 
prepare the Livy. 

“Livy ?” he gasped. “Who could do any work the night 
before a house match?” 

The someone retired discomforted. 

“You know it’s absurd,” Lovelace went on, “for a master 
to imagine anyone could do work when the house matches 
are on. The other day Claremont had me up and asked 
me why my work had been so bad lately. I told him 
that the house matches were so exciting that I could not 
concentrate my mind on anything else. He looked at me 
vacantly and said: ‘Well, are they really? I don’t know 
whom they excite ; they don’t excite me.’ ” 

“Dear old poseur; he’s keen enough on his own house,” 
Gordon answered drowsily from the depths of the hammock, 
in which he had almost fallen asleep. He felt incapable 
of thought. For weeks he had looked forward to the 
match, and now it was so close he felt strangely languorous, 
tired in brain and body. 

Rain fell steadily all night, and though it cleared off 
about break, the ground was already under water. It was 
a cold, gusty day. 

By lunch the whole House was quite unbalanced. There 
was much loud laughter, sudden sweeping silences; an 
atmosphere of restlessness lay over everyone. Very slowly 
the minutes dragged by. Gordon sat silent in a far corner 
of the pavilion. At last the whistle blew, the magenta and 
black jerseys trailed out on to the field. A cheer rose from 
the line. 

The next hour passed in a whirl of white jerseys, gradu- 
ally turned black with mud, of magenta forms dashing on to 
the School forwards, of wild, inarticulate black insects 
bawling on the touch-line. The pervading impression was 
mud. Everything was mud; he was mud, the ball was 
mud. Lovelace was indistinguishable. His own voice lead- 
ing the scrum seemed strangely unreal. There was a vague 


THIRDS 227 

feeling of disquiet when, early in the first half, he found 
himself standing under the posts, while the Buller’s half 
placed the ball for Whitaker to convert. Nothing tangible; 
then the disquiet changed to a drowsy contentment, the 
magenta jerseys swept down, dirty white forms came up 
and went down before them. Morgan rolled over the line. 
A kick failed. Half-time came, Hazelton came on, and 
said a lot of things to him, which he answered unconsciously. 

A whistle blew. Once more the magenta jerseys swept 
everything before them. There seemed no white jerseys 
at all. Numberless times he watched Lovelace taking the 
place kick. He thought he heard Mansell shrieking : 
‘‘Heave it into them ! Well done! Now you’ve got them!” 
Once he had a sensation of kicking the ball past the halves, 
he seemed clear, the full-back rushed up and fell in front 
of him, the ball stopped for a second, he rolled on. He 
heard someone coming up behind him, the line grew dimly 
white under his feet ; he fell on the ball ; there was a tre- 
mendous roar of cheering. The whistle went in short, 
sharp blasts. The game was over. 

And then he realised that the House had won, that his 
hopes were satisfied, that the Buller crowd had been routed, 
that the cup would shimmer on the mantelpiece. A wave 
of wild exultation came over him. The House poured over 
the touch-line, yelling and shouting. It was all “a wonder 
and a wild desire.” 

Then came the glorious reaction, “the bright glory of 
after battle wine.” The tea in the tuck-shop. They were 
out of training. Then the perfect laziness of lying full- 
length in his hammock, talking of the splendid victory. 
Then came the House tea. It was much like the Roman 
triumph. The whole House sat in their places ten minutes 
before six. Tablecloths were removed ; everyone took down 
heavy books, boots, sticks. Then when the Abbey struck six, 
Lovelace led the side into hall, up to the dais, to the Sixth 
form table. Everyone shouted, roared, beat the tables. 
Dust arose. It was very hard to breathe. The Chief came 


228 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


and made a speech. There was more shouting, more shriek- 
ing, more beating of tables. 

At last hall came with its gift of real rest. Gordon lay 
in the hammock, Lovelace reposed with his feet on the 
table. Everyone came in to congratulate them. Hazelton 
invited them in second hall to supper in the games study; 
the gramophone played rag-time choruses. Gordon sang 
all of them. Everyone was gloriously, unutterably happy. 

Meredith sent a wire: “Well done, House: now for the 
Two Cock.” 

In the dormitory Hazelton was talking over the match. 

“By Jove, when that side is the Three Cock, we shall 
win by fifty points. Lord, I do envy you, Caruthers ! You 
will see the day, and be in at the finish. I shall only shout 
from the touch-line.” And he added: “My God, I shall 
shout, too.” 

There was nothing to mar the extreme joyousness of life. 
The world lay at Gordon’s feet. He had only to stoop to 
pick it up. 


CHAPTER XVI 


DUAL PERSONALITY 

T HE Two Cock was always played a fortnight after the 
Thirds, and during that fortnight the outhouses had to 
play off among themselves three preliminary rounds. For 
them it was a remarkably strenuous time. The two best 
outhouse sides had, in fact, to play four house matches in 
twelve days. But it was possible for the School House to 
take things easily for at least half a week. And these three 
days out of training meant a lot to Gordon and others, who 
would have to play not only in the Two Cock, but most 
probably in the Three Cock as well. It prevented staleness ; 
and staleness was the great danger that all outhouse sides 
had to face. 

The week after the Thirds was regarded as a fairly slack 
time before the strenuous week that culminated in the Two 
Cock. There would probably be only one game — on the 
Saturday; and that a short quart er-of-an-hour-each- way 
affair. It was usually a quite uneventful time. This term, 
however, an occurrence took place that had a big effect on 
the growth of Gordon's character. 

Finnemore had caught influenza; the Chief had to go 
for a week to Oxford. The Sixth was at a loose end. 
Various masters took it in various subjects, or at least were 
supposed to. Most of the week was spent in the studies, as 
the master in charge forgot to turn up. 

One afternoon, Ferrers was to take them in English. 
But Ferrers was engaged in writing an article on the “New 
Public School Boy” for The Cornhill Magazine, and wanted 
to be quiet. He sent the form to their studies to write an 

229 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


230 

essay on a typical Ferrers subject: “Poetry is in the first 
instance the outpouring of a rebel. ,, It had to be shown 
up by six o’clock. 

Gordon revelled in it. During the long afternoon he 
poured out his fierce soul. His life was just now a strange 
paradox. Half the time he thought of poetry, worshipping 
any sort of rebellion against the conventional standards of 
living. At other times he was like the ordinary Philistine, 
blindly worshipping games, never seeing that they led no- 
where, and were as a blind alley. This afternoon Gordon 
forgot everything but Swinburne, Byron, Rossetti, and the 
poets of revolt. He stigmatised Wordsworth as a dodder- 
ing old man, not knowing that his return to nature was the 
greatest revolution in English literature. In a text-book 
he saw Shelley described as a rebel. He got a copy of his 
works out of the library, but found little there resembling 
the work of his own favourite. However, he quoted a 
verse out of O World, 0 Life, O Tvme! and decided to 
search more deeply later on. The bulk of the essay was 
a glowing eulogy of The Hymn to Proserpine and Don 
Juan. It was very dogmatic, very absurd in parts, but it 
had the merit of enthusiasm, and, at any rate, showed a 
genuine appreciation of a certain class of literature. 

Well satisfied, he made his way across to the Sixth Form 
room, and found Ferrers gazing at a pile of papers, as 
Hercules must have gazed at the Augean stables. 

“Um,” said Ferrers, “who are you?” 

“Caruthers, sir. I have brought you the essay you set 
the Sixth.” 

“Right ; let’s have a look at it ; hope it is better than the 
stuff I have just been reading.” 

“Yes, yes, um — ah,” he murmured to himself, as he 
read on. There was clearly some hankering after style, 
some searching for an idea. Ferrers dearly wanted to 
smile at the attack on Wordsworth, and the comparison 
between Swinburne and Milton (whom Gordon had never 
read), all in favour of the Pre-Raphaelite. But he knew 
that it would be a fatal thing to do ; it would seem so su- 


DUAL PERSONALITY 231 

perior ; the master must come down to the boy’s level. He 
read on to the end of the wild, sprawling peroration. 

“Not bad stuff, Caruthers, not bad at all. Far and 
away better than anything I have so far struck. I must 
talk to you again about this ; I am glad you love Byron ; 
I do myself; people run him down — fools, that is. You 
stick to Byron, he is all right. And don’t despise the rest 
too much. Have a shot at Keats and Shelley. They are 
not so powerful, but jolly good all the same, very fine 
stuff. ... Try The Pot of Basil. Must rush off now. 
Are you in training? No! Not yet. Right. Come up to 
tea to-morrow. Good-night.” 

And thus began a friendship that was the most perma- 
nent in Gordon’s school career. 

Every Friday he used to climb up the hill past Rogers’s 
house, and step out down the white London road to Fer- 
rers’s cosy little home. Over a cup of tea he read an essay. 
Ferrers would lie back listening, and then discuss it with 
him. He sometimes blamed the actual expression of it, but 
he never found fault on questions of taste. He let Gordon 
browse at will in the fields of English literature; he sug- 
gested books he thought Gordon would like; he did not 
try to rush him on. There was heaps of time; he would 
let Gordon develop on his own lines. 

From these evenings Gordon derived a pleasure that he 
found it hard to explain. He was thankful to get away 
from the footer talk, the inevitable intrigues, scandals, all 
in fact that went to form the daily curriculum. The world 
of ideas was far more attractive. Ferrers, although him- 
self a quarter-mile Blue, looked upon games as a recrea- 
tion, and upon school life as- a mud-heap that had to be 
washed clean. Poetry, drama, the modern novel, these 
were what Ferrers loved; and Gordon was glad to find 
someone who thought like this. He felt uplifted after his 
talks with Ferrers; he walked back to the House raising 
wonderful images of beauty, almost dancing with joy. Then 
as the school gates rose before him, and he heard the sound 
of a football bouncing in the court, the old routine caught 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


232 

him once more. He plunged into the old life with the same 
zest. He devised a new scheme for avoiding work, thought 
out an idea for teaching forwards to heel, laughed, dis- 
cussed athletics and was well content. He tried to analyse 
his feelings, but could not. Looking back, he saw that in 
the past he had been quite different. He was now two 
separate persons; then he had been himself alone. What 
was he now? At times he was the dreamer, the lover of 
art and poetry; at another the politician, the fighter who 
lived every minute of his life deeply to the full, with one 
fixed aim before him. Gordon wondered if this apparent 
paradox in himself was in any way an answer of the 
enigma that an artist's life so frequently was utterly dif- 
ferent from the broad outlines of his work. Browning had 
talked of a man having “two soul-sides.” Had he two 
soul-sides, one for the world, the other for art — and Fer- 
rers? But then Browning had spoken contemptuously of 
the “one to face the world with.” Surely games were as 
good as poetry? Or weren’t they, after all? He felt an 
unanswerable doubt, and at such times of introspection he 
would stop trying to think and merely let himself be carried 
on in whatever course fortune chose to bear him. And so 
the Jekyll and Hyde business went on. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE GAMES COMMITTEE 

I N the mud and the rain the School House Two Cock 
team, coming up early from a puntabout, joined the 
crowd watching the last stages of the Buller’s v. Claremont’s 
house match, and cheered Claremont’s to the echo. It was 
a remarkably fine game. When “no side” was called, the 
score was nine all. Extra time was played, and just before 
the close, amid great enthusiasm, a limping Claremont’s 
forward fell over the line from the line out. None shouted 
louder than the School House contingent. Everyone had 
grown tired of the Buller’s domination. They had been 
successful too long. For two years they had not lost a 
single house match. The Thirds had been their first re- 
verse ; but even then they had triumphed over all their out- 
house opponents. This was the first occasion, since Gordon 
had been at Fernhurst, that the Buller’s colours had been 
lowered by an outhouse side. It signified the breaking up 
of their rule. Gordon shouted like the Vengeance follow- 
ing the tumbrils. He roared loudly under “the Bull’s” nose, 
stamped off the field to tea, without a thought of the effect 
which his demonstration might have had upon “the Bull” 
himself. 

As it happened, to “the Bull” the incident meant a lot. 
“What is the reason of it?” he said to Felston that eve- 
ning. “How have I made these School House men, and 
especially Caruthers, hate me? They seem to delight in 
the defeat of my house. Of course, I can understand their 
wanting their house to beat mine, but why should they 
worry so much about Claremont’s doing so? I can’t un- 
derstand it ; and Caruthers will be leading the school scrum 

233 


234 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

in two years. We must not have bad feeling between the 
houses. Honest rivalry is all right; but there seems so 
much spite about it all nowadays. It was not so when I 
was a boy, and it wasn't so three years ago. I don’t under- 
stand.” 

A climax was reached in the Two Cock, a match rendered 
famous in Femhurst history by the amazing refereeing of 
a new master named Princeford, who had come as a stop- 
gap for one term. The match was played in the mud and 
slush, and was entirely devoid of incident. The play rolled 
from one end of the ground to the other. Archie performed 
prodigies of valour; Gordon did some brilliant things; Col- 
lins was quite fierce; but good football was impossible un- 
der the circumstances. Early in the first half, amid tre- 
mendous cheering, Lovelace scored a fine try, by the touch- 
line. There was no doubt about it. The school lined up 
behind the posts. But Princeford would have none of it. 
He came up, fussing and important: 

“No try, there. Knock on. Scum!” 

A gasp went up from both sides. Was the man blind ? 

“What is the fool talking about?” thundered Gordon. 

Princeford was round in a second: “Who said that?” 

Gordon stepped forward. 

“Ah, I shall remember you.” 

The game continued ; the outhouses amazed at such luck ; 
the School House sullen and indignant. The play developed 
into a series of forward rushes resulting in nothing. It 
was an amazingly dull game to watch. From one of these 
rushes Gordon got clear; the full-back fell on the ball, 
Gordon took a huge kick at the ball. One had to kick hard 
on such a sticky ground. He missed the ball, and caught 
the back on the side of the head. 

“Oh, damned sorry,” he said. 

It was quite unintentional, as would have been obvious 
to anyone who knew anything about the game. No one 
would be fool enough to kick the man, when by kicking the 
ball he might score a try. But Princeford was on Gordon 
like a shot. He began to lecture him before all the masters 


THE GAMES COMMITTEE $3$ 

on unsportsmanlike play, and threatened to send him off 
the field. Gordon glowered at him. It was a combat of 
temperaments. The game resulted in a draw. No try was 
scored. It was a dull performance, occasionally relieved 
by individual brilliance. Everyone was disappointed. 

Sullen and silent, the House side trooped up to tea. 
They had won the match, of that there was no doubt. And 
they had been done out of their victory. 

The limit was reached when, muddy and cold, they found 
that the new boot-boy had forgotten to heat the boiler, and 
there was only cold water to wash in. 

The changing-room was filled with the sound of oaths 
and curses. 

But when the effects of Princeford’s refereeing and the 
boot-boy’s forgetfulness had worn off slightly, the House 
felt more content. After all, they had not been beaten. 
They had got the cup for half the year at any rate. Things 
might be worse. And when in hall that night Hazelton 
gave Gordon his House cap, all his rage was overwhelmed 
by the feeling that his dearest object had been achieved. 
The boot-boy was forgiven; Princeford faded into the 
background of insignificance from which he had tempo- 
rarily emerged. 

But the matter did not end there : other fingers were itch- 
ing to be in the pie. Christy and Rogers, walking up from 
the field together, came to the conclusion that that incor- 
rigible nuisance Caruthers had disgraced Fernhurst foot- 
ball. Princeford was a master from Sedbury; he had only 
come for one term as a special concession, because his 
headmaster was a great friend of the Chief. What sort of 
an impression would he carry away of Fernhurst manners 
and sportsmanship, if Caruthers should be allowed to go un- 
punished, not only for playing a deliberately foul game, but 
also for using most foul language? And so these two, 
neither of whom knew anything about football, while both 
were immensely aware of their own importance, made their 
way to '‘the Bulks” study to pour out their grievances. 
“The Bull” was laid up with influenza, and had been pre- 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


236 

vented from watching the match. They found him lying on 
his sofa, very depressed and worried. For over an hour 
they elaborated the tale of Gordon’s misconduct. 

They pointed out that the object of house matches was 
to promote a keenness in school football, and to provide 
interest for those who were not good enough to get into the 
school team. The School House had for years during the 
Easter term isolated itself from the rest of the school. It 
had considered itself as apart, a school in itself. Such an 
attitude militated against esprit de corps ; it made the house 
appear more important than the school. It led to bad feel- 
ing between houses. In Caruthers were developed all the 
worst faults of this system. His keenness for his house 
had so far drowned his affection for his school that he 
used any tactics to reach his end. He took defeat in an 
unsportsmanlike manner. This afternoon’s play had made 
this clear. And what was worst of all was that Caruthers 
had a sufficient personality to attract others. “Moths are 
always attracted by the flame,” said Rogers pompously. If 
Caruthers were dealt with effectively at once, this poisonous 
School House notion of its own importance would collapse. 
Was it going to be put an end to? That was the question 
they put to Mr. Buller; and they took over an hour in 
putting it. 

“The Bull” listened to all they had to say, and as soon 
as they began repeating themselves, and he realised they 
had given all the information they could, told them he had 
now to dress for dinner, but that he would consider the 
matter carefully and let them know his opinion later on. 
Like two obsequious courtiers before an Eastern monarch, 
Rogers and Christy bowed themselves out, inarticulate with 
advice and last words. 

“The Bull” smiled. He was too big a man to be taken 
in by such obvious hypocrisy. These men amused him 
greatly, especially because they both thought he took them 
seriously. But, for all that, he saw that there was a good 
deal of truth in what they had said. He wished he had 
been at the game himself. It was so hard to form an 


THE GAMES COMMITTEE 237 

estimate on the strength of partial onlookers. Princeford's 
refereeing had been exasperating; but, damn it, even if it 
had, a sportsman should not make a fuss about it! It 
was all part of the game. But Caruthers did not treat a 
House match as a game, but as the real business of life. 
That was what rankled. Caruthers would laugh when he 
dropped a catch in a Colts match, or missed his collar on 
the upper; but in a House match his face would be set, his 
eyes wide and eager. Humour had for the moment ceased 
to exist, as far as he was concerned. He clearly preferred 
his house to his school. Was he stirring up any feeling 
between the outhouses and the School House? He re- 
membered an occasion terms back when Gordon in a House 
game had shouted out: ‘‘Let the swine have it.” Then, 
again, there was that affair of bribing Burgoyne to lay out 
one of his men. And then the incident this afternoon. 
Outwardly he was doing his very best to separate the in- 
terests of his house from those of the school, to split Fern- 
hurst into two factions. But supposing, after all, these 
were merely outward signs, supposing Gordon’s excessive 
keenness, coupled with the rash hotheadedness of youth, 
led him where his cooler judgment would have checked 
him. If that were so, and if strong measures were taken, 
might not his keenness change into a hatred of Fernhurst, 
might it not lead him to open antagonism with the rest of 
the school? Punishment might merely inflame and not 
crush him, while if his feelings were only the natural ef- 
fervescence of youth, they would wear down in time, and 
then all would be well. Yet he realised that it is the things 
which show that count in this world; a man is judged not 
by what he is, but by what he appears to be. Everything 
pointed to the belief that Gordon was working against the 
interests of Fernhurst; whether he actually meant to do so 
or not was immaterial. He had to be dealt with as if it 
was deliberate. It might be hard on him, but it was not 
the interests of the individual, but of the community, that 
had to be considered. 


23 8 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“The Bull” sent for Akerman, the school captain, after 
chapel on Sunday morning. 

“Akerman, I want to speak to you about Caruthers’s be- 
haviour in the Two Cock yesterday afternoon. Of course, 
I did not see what happened, but from what I have heard 
I think measures ought to be taken. It is a serious matter. 
Light measures are no good. I know Caruthers ; you have 
got to crush him, or he will laugh at you. I think what is 
required is a thrashing from the Games Committee. He is 
bound to be awed by the disapproval of a body representing 
Fernhurst football. I suppose now that the Games Com- 
mittee wouldn’t raise any objection? What about Hazel- 
ton ?” 

# “Well, sir, Hazelton went to the matron last night, and 
they discovered he had got mumps. I just passed him on 
the way to the sanatorium.” 

“Um ! That means there is no School House representa- 
tive. There must be one. It would not do for it to appear 
a school thing, got up against a School House boy. It 
would only help to alienate the two parties still more. 
Let’s see, who is the next senior man in the School House?” 

“Pilcher, sir.” 

Pilcher was one of those people who, though quite ef- 
ficient at everything — he was in the Upper Sixth — pass 
through the school without leaving any mark behind them. 
He was outside three-quarter, and was well worth his 
place in the side, but he was in no way a blood. He was 
never seen. He was always in his study. His was a blame- 
less, uneventful career. 

“Well, he won’t raise any objection, will he?” 

“I shouldn’t think so, sir.” 

Akerman had difficulty in not smiling. 

“Oh, well, then, you had better call a meeting of the 
Games Committee this afternoon and talk over the matter. 
If anyone makes a fuss, say I agree with it; and I expect 
it will be all right.” 

There was no need, however, for any recourse to the 
oracle. The Games Committee consisted of the captains 


THE GAMES COMMITTEE 


239 

of each house. None of them cared the least what happened 
to Caruthers; he was nothing to them. Pilcher supposed 
it was all right. The grand remonstrance was passed. 

On Monday at twelve-thirty Gordon was summoned by 
a fag to attend in the school library. The six members of 
the Games Committee sat round a circular table on which 
lay two canes. It all looked very impressive. 

Akerman rose. He began to read a speech off a piece of 
school paper. Gordon had wondered why he had been so 
very energetic in taking down notes during the Chief’s 
divinity lecture that morning. The speech went on. It 
was full of the inevitable platitudes about esprit de corps 
and a sportsmanlike spirit. Now and then Akerman 
stumbled, and had some difficulty in reading his own writ- 
ing. If there had not hung over him the prospect of a 
very severe beating, Gordon would have enjoyed himself 
thoroughly. Akerman was so pricele^sly absurd. The 
rest looked painfully self-conscious. Why could not Aker- 
man have learnt his speech? It was so bad that he could 
not imagine anyone having any difficulty in making it up 
as he went along. Akerman was so afraid of expressing 
an opinion. He prefaced every remark with “Mr. Buller 
says.” It gave a sense of security. The speech ended; 
everyone except Gordon was relieved. 

“Bend over there.” 

The beating w T as not so horrible an ordeal as he had ex- 
pected. In the same spirit in which the outhouse captains 
had raised no objection, merely because they did not care 
in the least what happened to Gordon, so now they did not 
take any particular trouble to hurt him. The ordeal was 
rather a fiasco. 

A halting oration had led to an even tamer execution. 
As Gordon walked down the library steps he was painfully 
aware of having been the principal character in a scene 
of sustained bathos. The body that represented Fernhurst 
football had scarcely risen to the dignity of its trust. 

And then a sudden wave of feeling swept over him ; and 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


240 

he saw the horrible unfairness of the whole thing. It did 
not matter that Akerman had made himself utterly ludi- 
crous, or that the rest of the Games Committee had been 
led to carry out a programme which they knew to be hypo- 
critical. It was the spirit that mattered. And at the back 
of all moved “the Bull” pulling the strings. In front of the 
School House porch, clearly, dispassionately, Gordon put 
his case. 

“I know when I play football I get a bit excited ; I know 
my feet fly over all the place. They did that ever since I 
was a baby. I know I sometimes lose my temper. But I 
have been like that always. I have played the same game 
in the Thirds, and in the Colts, my first term and yesterday. 
But nobody said anything then. Do you remember the 
Milton match? I went a bit far then: I was fearfully 
ashamed of myself afterwards ; I thought my play had been 
a disgrace to the school. But did ‘the Bull’ think so ? Good 
Lord, no. He gave the side a jaw, and said that they were 
a disgrace to the school, with the exception of me! I 
played hard and all that, while the rest slacked and funked ! 
I was singled out for praise in the roughest game I have 
ever played. And now what happens? The House begins 
to win its matches ; ‘the Bulk sees his house losing cup after 
cup. He and Akerman and the other fools think some- 
thing must be done. So they wait for an opportunity and 
then give me a Games Committee beating, to try and 
frighten the rest of the House. They talked about my un- 
sportsmanlike play. They did not mind when I played 
rough against Milton. Oh dear, no! But when they find 
their own dirty shins being hacked, they sit up and shriek. 
Oh, isn't it all fair ! And they wait till Hazelton stops out, 
too!” 

Everyone agreed with him. From Dan to Beersheba 
there was but one opinion. Buller had not been playing 
the game. The authorities were against them. The House 
would have to cling together to protect its rights. They 
could not have Buller trampling on them, dictating terms. 
He had begun the contest ; they would be prepared for him 


THE GAMES COMMITTEE 


241 


next time. An aura of antagonism overhung the grey 
studies. Members of Buller’s house were dealt with in the 
sweeping delineation of “the swine across the road.” For 
the rest of the term, every time Princeford passed the 
School House on his way to the common room, a whistle 
blew from the dark recesses of the studies, and some voice 
shouted: “No try; off-side!” “The Bull” himself was 
looked on with a general suspicion. The inevitable had 
happened. “The Bull” in his attempt to sacrifice the in- 
dividual to the community had forgotten that the com- 
munity is at the mercy of the individual. The world is 
composed of a number of individuals round whom parties 
and nations cling. “The Bull” had made an attack on the 
individual, and the community that Gordon represented 
took up his attitude of defiance, strengthening his resolve 
not to give way, to keep the House independent of the 
tyranny that drew five outhouses together as one. The 
House was not to be coerced. Its members would be free 
to think, to do, to speak as they thought best. From that 
moment Gordon took the interests of the House and not 
Femhurst as the standard by which to judge all his thoughts 
and actions. 

And it so happened that just at this moment, when the 
House was bubbling over with suppressed wrath, a chance 
was given them of showing their independence and defi- 
ance. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


REBELLION 

O N the Wednesday after the Games Committee’s ac- 
tivities in the library, Ferrers banged into Betteridge’s 
study, his arms laden with books. There was a Stoics meet- 
ing on the next Saturday, and the card drawn up at the be- 
ginning of the term announced that there would be a read- 
ing of Arms and the Man, by Bernard Shaw. But Ferrers, 
who was now president, never took any notice of the pro- 
gramme, which he invariably altered a day or two before 
the meeting. This imposed quite a considerable strain on 
those who had to get up fresh parts and prepare different 
speeches at a second’s notice. But as the alterations were 
nearly always an improvement no one minded. 

“Sorry, Betteridge — had to change Stoics’ thing. Just 
picked up this — Younger Generation, by Stanley Houghton 
* — ordered fifteen copies from Sidgwick & Jackson — good 
publishers. Do you know them? I’ve marked our parts — 
here they are — no more time. Good-night.” 

He was gone in a second. And the unfortunate secretary 
was left with the lot of distributing copies and drawing up 
fresh notices. It was just on lock-up, so there was no time 
to do anything till the next day. He settled himself down 
to read the play. In a very short while he was thoroughly 
engrossed ; by the time he had reached the end of the first 
act he had no doubt that Saturday would witness the most 
successful meeting of the Stoics since the historic occasion 
when Macdonald and Rogers had been persuaded to speak 
on opposite sides on “Trade Unionism,” and Rogers had 
been most gloriously routed. 

Betteridge went in search of Tester and Gordon. 

“Come up to my study and read a play Ferrers has got 
hold of for the Stoics. It’s glorious stuff.” 

242 


REBELLION 


243 

‘'All right,” said Gordon. “I will go and fetch Rudd/' 

“For God’s sake, don’t bring that outsider.” 

“Oh, hell, why not? He is quite respectable; and, after 
all, he is one of the best of our regular readers.” 

“All right then : fetch him along.” 

Since their scandalous ramble Gordon had become more 
or less friends with Rudd, and had to a large extent helped 
to make his life more bearable. 

The four sat silent, reading the play. There was occa- 
sionally a suppressed laugh : otherwise no one spoke at all. 

In under an hour they had all finished. 

“Jolly good,” said Gordon. “I do like seeing this younger 
generation up against the rotten conventions of the mid- 
Victorian era.” 

“Deal gently with them,” murmured Betteridge. “Their 
horsehair arm-chairs have stood the test of time very well.” 

“Too well; but their Puritan ideas are in the melting- 
pot now. Their day is over.” 

“You know I am not sure that the Stoics is the right 
audience for a play like this,” said Tester. 

“Good heavens, man,” protested Gordon, “you don’t 
think it would corrupt their morals, do you?” 

“Of course not, you ass ! I don’t think they would un- 
derstand it: that’s all. They will laugh at it, and think it 
funny. But they won’t really see what Houghton is driving 
at. They won’t understand that he is trying to cut away 
the shackles of mature thought that are impeding the limbs 
of youth. The lads in the Remove will be frightfully 
amused; they will think the father an awful old fool, and 
the son the devil of a rip. They won’t see that both of them 
are real characters, and that a hundred families to-day are 
working out their own little tragedy just on these very 
lines.” 

“But surely there really are no fathers quite so absurd as 
old Kennion. Does not Houghton exaggerate the type, as 
Dickens exaggerates all his types?” 

“Oh no, he’s real enough ; I expect there are a good many 
like him living in Fernhurst now.” 


244 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

The truth of the last remark was brought home three 
days later. 

On the Friday before the debate Ferrers got a bad at- 
tack of influenza. There would be no one to take the chair. 
Moved by an instinct of courtesy, Ferrers wrote to Christy 
a little note, enclosing the book, and asking him to preside. 

On Saturday morning Christy went up to Betteridge in 
break. 

“Ah, Betteridge, Mr. Ferrers has asked me to take the 
chair at the Stoics. Well, I myself would not be present 
when such a play was read. It is aimed at the very roots 
of domestic morality. It might do very well in a small 
circle of Senior boys. But it would have a very serious 
effect on young boys who are not as mature as you or I 
are. None of my house will attend; and, from a conver- 
sation I had with Mr. Rogers and Mr. Claremont, I am 
fairly certain they will not allow their houses to go either. 
It would be really much better to wait until Mr. Ferrers is 
well again before anything is done. It would be quite easy 
to postpone the meeting, I suppose.” 

“Oh yes, sir, of course.” 

Betteridge was not paying much attention : he was think- 
ing hard. The bell for school rang. 

“That will be all right then, Betteridge.” 

“Quite, thank you, sir.” 

Christy, bubbling with satisfaction, rushed off to tell the 
head of Buller’s that the meeting had been postponed. 
Things were turning out well for him. He had obtained 
the beating of Caruthers, and now he had most distinctly 
scored off Ferrers. He did not stop to think that both 
these campaigns had been carried on behind his enemy’s 
back. 

But in his moment of triumph over Ferrers he did not 
pause to think whether he had also triumphed over the 
School House spirit of antagonism which he himself had 
stirred up. 

During the half-hour between morning school and lunch, 
Betteridge, Tester and Gordon held a council of war. 


REBELLION 


245 

“Of course, whatever we do,” said Betteridge, “is bound 
to be in the nature of farce. Three houses, you see, won’t 
turn up at all, Abercrombie’s hardly ever sends anyone, 
and I don’t mind betting that Christy gets round 'the Bull’ 
somehow.” 

“Yes; but, confound it all,” said Gordon, “are we going 
to be dictated to by these outhouse potentates ? The Stoics 
is more a School House society than anything else; and, 
what’s more, it is going to remain so, too. These outhouse 
men can come or go if they want to. It does not matter to 
us. Let us read this play with a School House cast, carry 
the thing through somehow, and show these fools like 
Christy what we think of them. Now is our chance of 
proving our independence.” 

“Won’t there be a hell of a row, though?” said Betteridge 
reluctantly. 

“What if there is, man?” said Gordon. “We can’t help 
that. Somehow or other that play is going to be read. 
Let this evening be a symbol of the House’s attitude. These 
houses have flung down the glove. They beat our forwards 
when we win matches, and they try and stop our meetings. 
Damn it, we’ll pick up the glove !” 

“Yes,” shouted Gordon, “and fling it in their snivelling 
faces.” 

Betteridge drew up a huge notice of the meeting after 
hall and posted it on the school board. It ran as follows; 

In spite of the fact that many of the usual readers 
will be prevented from attending the Second 
Meeting of the Stoics this term, the Society will 
read, at seven-thirty, in the School House Reading 
Room, 


THE YOUNGER GENERATION 
By Stanley Houghton 


Cast 


( Signed ) C. P. Betteridge. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


246 

That evening was historic. Every member of the School 
House attended the meeting, the members of the day-room 
as well as those from the studies. The reading-room was 
packed. It was literally a record meeting. The reading 
was abominable. Parts were forced at the eleventh hour 
on reluctant and totally unsuitable persons. But somehow 
or other they got through it in the end; and that was all 
that mattered. 

But still it was not without a little nervousness that the 
conspirators awaited developments. Christy saw the notice 
and fumed. Ferrers heard of it and laughed. Rogers 
rushed to the Chief palpitating with rage. 

After lunch the Chief sent for Betteridge, and asked for 
a copy of The Younger Generation. There was an air of 
nervous anticipation pervading the studies. Just before 
tea the Chief sent for Betteridge again. 

“A very interesting play. Very modern, of course, but 
fextremely clever. Thank you so much for lending it me. 
I wish I had been at the reading. A record attendance, I 
hear. Well, ask me to come next time you get as good a 
play as that.” 

There was no reference to the outhouse boycott. The 
Chief was very tactful, and, moreover, he had enjoyed read- 
ing the play immensely. Besides, it would not have done 
any good if he had made a fuss, especially when he was 
entirely in sympathy with Betteridge. 

In The Fernhurst School Magazine, which was edited by 
Betteridge, there appeared the following paragraph: — 

“On Saturday, 5th March, before a record and apprecia- 
tive audience, the Stoics read The Younger Generation, by 
Stanley Houghton. There was no one who failed to real- 
ise the extraordinary insight into the life of the day that 
made such a work possible. The enthusiasm and applause 
were highly significant, as showing what a keen interest 
the school is taking in all questions of social and domestic 
life. There were rather fewer representatives from the 


REBELLION 


247 

outhouses than usual, but this was as well, as there would 
have been little room for them.” 

The victory of Christy was not so very complete after 
all. 

With this successful demonstration Gordon's excitement 
in House politics abated. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 

T HE Three Cock came and went, bringing with it House 
caps for Lovelace, Collins and Fletcher, but it caused 
little stir. Everyone had foreseen the result, and without 
Hazel ton (ill with mumps) the House stood little chance 
of keeping the score under fifty. Hostilities were declared 
closed for the time being. The four weeks of training for 
the sports came on, and Gordon’s Sixth Form privileges 
were restored. For a short time the hold of athleticism 
was weakened, and as it weakened, the hold of literature 
became more firm. 

“House Caps” were always allowed a fairly slack time 
after the Three Cock, and Gordon made the best of his. 
MTiile the last traces of winter were disappearing, and the 
evenings began to draw out into long, lingering sunsets, 
he voyaged on into the unknown waters of poetry. Keats 
and Shelley, names which had once meant nothing to him, 
now became his living prophets. H'e felt his own life col- 
oured by their interpretations. During the days of his 
quest for power, when the scent of battle had led him on, 
he had found inspiration only in those whose moods coin- 
cided with his own. But now that the contest was over, and 
strife was merged into a temporary lull, there came a check 
in the fiery search for achievements, he found pleasure in 
the gentler but far more beautiful melodies of Keats. 
Byron and Swinburne had beaten so loudly on their drums, 
and blown so forcibly on the clarion that his ears had been 
deafened. But in the peaceful afterglow of satisfied desire 
he asked rather for soft and quiet music. 

During this time he saw a great deal of Ferrers. To- 
248 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 249 

gether they discussed all the questions that to them seemed 
most vital. The Public School system came in for a great 
deal of abuse. 

“It’s rotten to the core,” Ferrers would say, “rotten, ab- 
solutely. Boys come here fresh from preparatory schools. 
If they are clever and get into higher forms, they are put 
among bigger boys, and they get their outlook coloured by 
them. They get wrong impressions shoved into their heads, 
cease to think at all, lose all sense of honesty and morality. 
Then the school that has made them like this finds out 
what they are, and sends them away.” 

“By Jove, that’s just what Jeffries said.” 

“Jeffries — who is Jeffries? I don’t know him.” 

“He was a splendid fellow; but, like most other people, 
he followed the crowd, then got caught and had to go.” 

“That is it; always the same. Usually the least bad 
are sacked, too; never heard of a real rake getting sent 
away; the rakes are far too clever. Cleverness is what 
counts, counts all through life. A man is expelled only 
because he is not clever enough to avoid being caught, and 
then the school thinks it’s saving the others by sending him 
away. And it does no good. The big wrong ’un stays on, 
only the weak one goes. Of course I don’t see how you 
can alter it. You’ve got to root the whole system out. 
Human nature is a thing that has got to be dealt with care- 
fully, not in the half-hearted way it is here.” 

Ferrers wrote a great deal about Public Schools to the 
various London papers. He was fast winning a name in 
the educational world. But he was always being asked to 
modify statements, and to show life as it was not. He 
raved against the weakness of the authorities. 

“They don’t want to know the truth,” he said, “they are 
afraid to hear it. Tell us lies/ that’s what they say. ‘Lull 
us into a false security. A big bust-up is coming soon, but 
keep it off till after we are gone.’ They know their house is 
built on sand, running out into the river. They want just 
to barricade their own tiny houses for a little. I want to 
go and search for the big firm land, but they are too com- 


250 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

fortable on their cushions and fine linen to darqr fo move* 
Oh, prophesy smooth things l” 

Gordon listened intently to it all. Ferrers was his ideal* 
Often they would talk of books: of the modern novel; of 
Compton Mackenzie, in whom idealism and realism were 
one; of Rupert Brooke, the coming poet, who was to make 
men believe in the beauties of this earth, instead of hank- 
ering after an immaterial hereafter ; of their scorn for Kip- 
ling’s bourgeois jingoism; of the Elizabethan drama, of 
Marlowe, Beaumont, Webster. They were very wonderful, 
those hours. Gordon felt that he had at last, after wander- 
ing far, come to his continuing city. Glancing back over 
his last two years, he used to laugh and say: 

“I don’t regret them; I was happy; and the only thing 
to regret is unhappiness. But I have outgrown them ; they 
did not last. They were what Stephen Phillips would num- 
ber among the "over-beautiful, quick fading things.’ They 
were good days, though. But I am happier now. I can 
see the future spreading out before me. Next winter 
Hunter will be captain, but I shall be second in the team 
and lead the forwards. It will be a year of preparation. 
Then will come my year of captaincy. All the things I 
wanted seem falling into my hands. "Life is sweet, brother/ 
life is sweet!” 

And, looking back, it seemed as if in the wild orgy of 
Pack Monday Fair he had finally burnt the old garments 
and put on the new. That day had been the funeral pyre 
of his old life; and, like Sardanapalus, it had died of its 
own free will. A glorious end; no anti-climax. But the 
future was still more glorious. When he watched the 
morning sun flicker white on the broad Eversham road 
from the station to the Abbey, the leaves breaking on the 
lindens, the dim lights waking in the chapel on Sunday, 
he saw how far he had outgrown his old self. Now he had 
begun to perceive what life’s aim should be — the search 
for beauty. Tester had been right when he said that 
beauty was the only thing worth having, the one ideal time 
could not tarnish, nor the years destroy. And yet Tester 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 251 

was not satisfied. The hold of the world was too strong 
on him. He could see where others were going wrong, but 
he himself was all astray, at times morbidly wretched, at 
others hilarious with excitement. It was merely a question 
of temperament. Gordon saw stretching before him the 
fulfilment of his hopes. There was no niche for failure. 
His destiny would unroll smoothly like a great machine ; 
he was at peace, in sympathy with a world of beautiful 
ideas and dreams. At times he would feel an unreasoning 
anger with the Public School system, but his rage soon 
cooled down. After all, it had left him at the last un- 
scathed, and was in the future to bring many gifts. Others 
might be broken on the wheel; but he was still sufficiently 
an egoist, sufficiently self-centred to be indifferent to them. 
He had come through, with luck perhaps, but still he had 
come through. That was all that mattered. He had not 
read Matthew Arnold's Rugby Chapel. If he had, he might 
have recognised himself in the pilgrim who had saved only 
himself, while the world was full of others, like the Chief, 
who were “bringing their sheep in their hand." But prob- 
ably even if he had read the poem at that time, he would 
have been too happy, too self-contented, too successful to 
realise its poignant truth. And it would not have been 
surprising. Youth is always intolerant and self-centred. 
It is only when we grow old, and see so “little done of all 
we so gaily set out to do," that we suddenly appreciate that, 
even if we have ourselves failed, yet if we can by our ex- 
perience help someone else to succeed, our life will not be 
utterly vain. Altruism is the philosophy of middle age, 
and though youth can never see it, the most completely 
perfect philosophy of all. 

On a few, but very few, occasions Gordon was tempo- 
rarily roused out of his secure atmosphere. One of these 
was on the last day of term, when The Fernhurst School 
Magazine appeared, with a letter suggesting that the Three 
Cock should be changed into a Two Cock, since the School 
House had for the last few years proved itself so incapable 
of holding out against the strong outhouse combination of 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


252 

three houses against one. Much of what the writer said 
was true. The House numbered only about seventy, while 
each outhouse contained some forty boys, with perhaps six 
day boys attached to each. The House did not take in day 
boys, so that the House was always playing against a se- 
lection from double its number. A Two Cock would be 
far fairer. Nevertheless the House was furious. 

“Confounded old ass,” said Mansell. “I believe Clare- 
mont wrote it. Let him wait till next year and he will see 
his beastly blue shirts rolled in the mud.” 

“But it is such infernal swank,” said Gordon. “We 
smashed them in the Thirds ; to all intents and purposes we 
routed them in the Two Cock; the only thing the outhouses 
won was the Three Cock ; and they are so bucked about that 
that they want to clinch a victory, get up and shout : ‘Look 
at us, what devils of fine fellows we are! You can’t touch 
us. Better take charity/ Unutterable conceit! Why, we 
won four times running about seven years ago. I have a 
good mind to go to Claremont and give it him straight. 
Betteridge, you absurd ass, why did you print this thing?” 

“Well, you see, there were a few rather risky things in 
the paper, and I thought if I cut it out he might rather hack 
about the rest of the rag. And, besides, it will be an 
awful score when we win next year, as we are absolutely 
certain to. Can’t you imagine the account: ‘Last year 
some rather foolhardy persons doubted the ability of the 
School House to deal with a combined side of the best three 
outhouses, and they were rash enough to express their 
doubts in print. But this year, under the able captaincy 
of G. F. Hunter, with the forwards admirably led by G. R. 
Caruthers, the House gained a thoroughly deserved victory 
by fifteen points to three/ We shall crow then, my lads, 
sha’n’t we?” 

“Yes, it will be all right then,” said Mansell. “My lord, 
I wish I was going to be here to play in it. My governor 
is a fool to make me leave and go to France.” 

Mansell was leaving at the end of the term. 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 253 

“Well, all the same, it’s a vile insult to the House,” said 
Gordon. “Whether he meant it or not, it’s an insult.” 

But his annoyance passed quickly. He was far too cer- 
tain of the future to worry much about what anyone said. 
He was sure the House would win in the end. It was only 
a question of time. And when the prize-giving came, his 
anger had passed into a wild happiness. His place in form 
gave him little satisfaction, for he was easily bottom of the 
Sixth; but after the books had been given there came the 
turn of the House cups. Amid enormous cheers Lovelace 
went up for the Thirds cup; amid still greater he and the 
outhouse captain stepped up together to receive the Two 
Cock cup. Then at tea Hazelton walked into hall carrying 
the two trophies to place on the mantelpiece, and the House 
burst forth in a roar of cheering. It was all sheer joy; and 
beyond the present glory shone the dawn of great triumphs 
to come. The House was just entering on its career of suc- 
cess. The day of Buller’s was at an end. There only re- 
mained to them the remnants of their earlier glory. Where 
they had stood the House was about to stand. And in that 
hour of triumph Gordon himself would be the protagonist. 

The short Easter holidays passed in a whirl of happiness. 
Over the fresh grass of Hampstead Heath Gordon wan- 
dered alone on those April mornings, when the trees were 
breaking into a green splendour, when the long waters of 
the Welsh Harp lay out in the morning sun like a sheet of 
gold. Looking across from the firs he saw the spire of 
Harrow church cutting the red sky, and the long stretch 
of country in between rolling out into a panorama of love- 
liness. On the road to Parliament Hill he passed the spot 
where Shelley found a starving woman dying in the snow, 
and took her to Leigh Hunt’s house to give her warmth. 
Near John Masefield’s house was the garden where Keats 
had written his immortal Ode to a Nightingale. Hampstead 
was prodigal of associations, and they stirred the boy’s 
imagination like a trumpet call. 

Then followed the long summer term, with its drowsy 
afternoons, its white flannels, its long evening shadows 


254 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

creeping across the courts, its ices, its innumerable lemon- 
ades; everything conspired to make Gordon supremely 
happy. Scholastically he had at last achieved his great wish 
of specialising in history ; a fine-sounding programme which 
actually implied that he would not need to do another stroke 
of work during his Fernhurst career. Specialising in his- 
tory was an elastic activity, and might mean a few hours 
a week in which to read up political economy. It might 
mean what Prothero made it mean — seven hours in school 
a week, and the remainder pretending to read history in his 
study. 

The grey and lifeless Finnemore superintended the his- 
tory, and, like everything else he superintended, it was 
scandalously neglected. Outhouse people occasionally did 
a little work; School House men never. Gordon began 
by taking quite modest privileges. He knew he had heaps 
of time to enlarge his advantages. He started by doing one 
prose and one “con” a week, instead of two proses and two 
“cons” like the rest of the form. He also gave up one 
Latin construe book and one Greek book. That meant about 
two hours a day to idle in his study. But he found it quite 
easy to turn that two into three, and he was well aware 
that by Christmas his daily hours of indolence would have 
reached five. Prothero at the present moment was only 
going into school for divinity and French, and as often 
as not he told his French master that he was so much oc- 
cupied with history that he could not come to French at 
all. Nominally he went into school seven hours a week, 
actually he very rarely went in more than three. 

The method of teaching history at Fernhurst had been 
the same from time immemorial. Gordon was told to buy 
Modern Europe, by Lodge, price seven shillings and six- 
pence. He did not, however, put his father to this ex- 
pense. History specialists in the School House had for 
years used the same book. It had once belonged to a fabu- 
lous Van Hepworth, who had gained a History exhibition 
at Selwyn somewhere in the nineties. 

No one knew anything of this Van Hiepworth. His name 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 255 

was on the school boards, but he had never been seen or 
heard of since he had left Fernhurst for the romantic 
atmosphere of Cambridge. But he had left behind him a 
name that will be remembered in the School House as long 
as history is taught by Finnemore. For on his last day,, 
in a fit of gratitude, he had left to future historians the- 
legacy of his history notebook. It contained all that Finne- 
more knew! 

Every week Finnemore set three questions to his special- 
ists — to be done with books. He had a stock of these 
questions, and Van Hepworth had written exhaustive essays 
on every one of them. All that was needed was to consult 
the oracle, and then copy out what he had written. Some- 
times, by way of a change, Finnemore would think of a 
new subject. But Gordon would say: 

“Oh, sir, I have been reading about Mary de Medici, and 
am very much interested in her. I wondered if I could do 
a question on her.” 

“Of course. I always like you to do what you are in- 
terested in. Let me see. I have a nice little question on her : 
‘Mary de Medici: was she an unmixed evil?’ An interest- 
ing subject which raises quite a lot of points. And I have 
one more question for you. ‘Compare Richelieu and 
Mazarin,' an interesting little psychological study. I think 
you will enjoy them.” 

Then Gordon would have recourse to the unfailing 
authority, Van Hepworth. Sometimes he felt too slack to 
copy out the questions at all. On such occasions he would 
simply read Van Hep worth's essay straight out of the old, 
battered book. 

“I hope you won't mind my reading this to you, but I 
was in rather a hurry and I doubt if you could quite read 
my handwriting.” 

Finnemore would listen with the greatest interest. 

“Very nice indeed, Caruthers, very sound attitude to 
adopt. An essay well worth preserving. You will copy 
it out neatly, won’t you?” 

“Oh yes, sir.” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


256 

Gordon wanted to institute a Van Hepworth memorial, 
and put up a plate to him somewhere. But there were 
many obstacles to this. The Chief might want to know' 
more about him, and the legend had to be kept secret. 
In the end he contented himself with having the book 
bound in full morocco, so that it might be preserved for 
future generations, for already the cardboard cover had 
become sadly tom. Where Van Hepworth is now, who 
knows? This only is certain, that although he has most 
likely by now lost all clear recollection of Fernhurst and 
the grey School House studies, yet his name is remembered 
there to-day, probably with far greater veneration and 
respect than was ever paid to him during the days of his 
school career. 

“Let us now praise famous men, 

Men of little showing, 

For their work continueth. 

Deep and long continueth, 

Wide and far continueth, far beyond their knowing.” 

And so Gordon’s scholastic career came to an end. He 
had reached the '‘far border town.” There would be no 
need to fret himself about form orders any more. “Strong 
men might go by and pass o’er him” ; he had retired from 
the fray. While others crammed their brains with obscure 
interpretations of ^Eschylus, he lay back reading English 
poetry and English prose, striving to get a clear hold of the 
forces that went to produce each movement, and incident- 
ally doing himself far more good than he would have done 
by binding himself down to the classical regime, which 
trained boys to imitate, and not to strike out on their own. 
Gordon had already acquired enough of the taste and sense 
of form which the classics alone can provide, and which are 
essential to a real culture. But he was lucky in stopping 
soon enough to prevent himself being forced into a groove, 
from which he could only judge new movements by the 
Ciceronian standards, without grasping the fact that tech- 
nique and form are merely outward coverings of genius, 
and not genius in themselves. 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 257 

To the other delights of this delightful term was added 
the sudden and unexpected success of Gordon's cricket. 
For the first fortnight Gordon found himself playing on 
House and Colts games. But as he gathered runs there 
with ease, he was soon transplanted to the First Eleven 
nets, which he thenceforward only left for a brief spell, 
after an attack of chicken-pox. For a member of the 
School Eleven life has nothing better to offer than a summer 
term. There were usually two matches a week. The team 
would get off work at ten o'clock, and just as the school 
was pouring out in break they would stroll leisurely down 
to the cricket field. Everything, in fact, was carried out 
leisurely. A wonderful atmosphere of repose hangs over 
a cricket field in the morning, when the grass is still spar- 
kling with dew, and there is silence and vast emptiness where 
usually is the sound of shouting and hurrying feet. There 
was the long luncheon interval, when the members of the 
Eleven would wander round the field arm in arm, or lounge 
on the seats lazy and contented. Gordon loved to sit in 
the pavilion balcony watching the white forms change 
across between the overs, the red ball bouncing along the 
grass, the wicket-keeper whip off the bails, the umpire's, 
finger go up. The whole tableau was so unreal, so idealistic. 
Then the school would come down after lunch with rugs 
and cushions, and would clamour outside the tuck-shop 
for ices and ginger beer. Gordon could hardly connect 
his present existence with the past two years of doubts, 
uncertainties, wild excitements, hurry, bustle — never a 
second's peace. 

One of his most perfect days was the Hawley match. 
After a long journey, at the very end of the day they passed 
through Oxford, and Gordon caught one fleeting glimpse 
of those wonderful “dreaming spires," rising golden in the 
dying sun. As the team walked up from Aberford to the 
school, Tester, who had at last got into the side, came up 
and took Gordon's arm. 

“You know, when I saw Oxford lying out there so 
peaceful and calm, I thought I had at last reached the end 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


258 

of searching. This was my first view of Oxford ; by passing 
the certificate I didn’t need to go up for smalls. Thank 
God, I am going up there next term. I think I shall forget 
all my old misgivings in so completely peaceful an atmos- 
phere. I can’t shake off the Public School ideas yet ; 
I am all adrift ; still, I think it will be all right there.” 

Gordon wondered indeed how anyone could fail to find 
all their dreams realised in so secluded, so monastic a 
Utopia. 

The next two days were supremely happy. Gordon, 
Lovelace and Foster were put into the same house; and 
they spent half the night ragging in their old light-hearted 
fashion. The match resembled most of the other per- 
formances of that year’s Eleven. The whole side was out 
for eighty. Gordon hit two fours and was then leg before ; 
Lovelace, with laborious efforts and much use of his pads, 
made twenty-three and five leg byes. But it was a sorry 
performance, and Hawley put up over two hundred. 
Fernhurst went in again; and that day Gordon and Love- 
lace were sent in first. 

It was an amazing performance. Gordon’s cricket was, 
in honest fact, one of the biggest frauds that had ever been 
inflicted on an opposing side. He had three shots — a cut, 
a slash shot past cover, and a drive that landed the ball 
anywhere from mid-wicket to over short-slip. People used 
to say that he tried each of these shots in rotation. That 
perhaps was hardly fair; but he invariably cut straight 
balls and hooked good length balls on the off stump to 
the on boundary. This evening, at any rate, he was in 
luck. With terrific violence he beat the Hawley bowling 
all round the field. Some shots went along the ground, 
more fell just out of reach of a fielder. It was invigorating 
but hardly classic cricket. Still, whatever it was, it pro- 
duced seventy-two runs, while Lovelace had scored three. 
And after he left Lovelace became still more cautious. A 
man from Christy’s was in at the other end, who had been 
instructed to keep up his end for an hour. As a matter of 
fact, they scored exactly two runs between them in about 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 259 

half-an-hour. That two was from a drive from Lovelace 
past cover. 

At such daring Lovelace became much elated. 

“Come on, I say, come on. Lots of runs here. Come on.” 

The Hawley men were very amused. Lovelace took noth- 
ing seriously. It was as well that “the Bull” was absent. 
Once, just as the bowler was rushing up to bowl, Lovelace 
flung out his hand and said: “Stop! Move the screen, 
please; your hand is just behind a tree!” 

With great difficulty the screens were moved. 

Once he patted the ball a little way down the pitch, and 
shouted to the batsman at the other end, with hand ex- 
tended: “Stay!” 

There was some subdued laughter. 

Lovelace turned round to the wicket-keeper and said: 
“Strange as it may seem, I am the worst member of this 
rotten side, and I am playing for my place. This is the 
way to keep your place at Fernhurst.” 

The final achievement was a successful appeal against the 
light. 

The next day it rained in torrents. 

“Jolly rotten luck,” said Lovelace, “and I was certain 
for a bat for making my fifty, too.” 

“Do you think so?” said Tester. “You know, they 
don't play to a finish in England. You are thinking of 
Australian rules.” 

Commemoration came and went, with its tea-parties, 
parasols, calf-bound books, sermons and cricket match. 
The term drew to its close. 

“This is the best term I have ever had,” said Gordon. 
“By Jove, we have had some good days.” 

Yet, of all things, that which remained clearest in his 
memory was one day early in the term, when he and 
Lovelace were recovering from chicken-pox. The school 
had gone for a field day to Salisbury, and they were left 
behind with Archie Fletcher, who had been ragging Jenks, 
and had been kept back for punishment, and a quantity of 
small fry. No work was done. In the morning they all 


26 o 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


had to go into the big schoolroom and hear Claremont read 
Lycidas and parts of Comus. 

Claremont really read remarkably well, and Gordon, in 
an atmosphere of genial tolerance and good humour, was 
able to get a clearer insight into the real soul of the pedant 
of the Lower Fifth. For, shorn of his trappings, Claremont 
was really rather “a dear old fellow.” Among books he 
had found the lasting friendship and consolation that among 
his colleagues he had sought for in vain. And as he read 
Comus , in many ways the most truly poetical poem in 
the English language, Gordon realised how sensitively 
Claremont’s heart was wrought upon by every breath of 
beauty. 

The afternoon they had to themselves. A net was put 
up on the field, and for an hour or so they beat about, 
regardless of science and footwork. A relaxation was a 
good thing now and again. Then they went back to the 
studies, and in the absence of its owner laid hold of the 
games study. They had the run of it now, and, with an 
enormous basket of strawberries before them, played tunes 
on the gramophone and roared the chorus. As the evening 
fell, and the lights began to wake, Gordon and Archie stole 
down to the fried fish shop, strictly out of bounds, and 
returned with an unsavoury, but none the less palatable, 
parcel of fried fish and chips. 

It was a glorious day; they enjoyed all Fernhurst’s 
privileges with its restrictions removed, and when the notes 
of Land of Hope and Glory proclaimed that the corps was 
marching up Cheap Street, they considered the return to 
realities to be almost an intrusion on their isolated peace. 

In the last week of the term the Colts played Uphill, 
and Gordon was still young enough to play for them. 
“The Bull” went with them, and could not have been 
kinder. He walked round the ground with Gordon in the 
interval, as if there had been never any cause of quarrel 
between them at all. They talked of books as well as 
cricket; and though “the Bull’s” gods were not Gordon’s, 
there was real sympathy between them for an hour. On 


THE DAWNING OF MANY DREAMS 261 


the way back in the train, Gordon wondered whether, after 
all, he had not been right at the beginning, when he prom- 
ised to curb his personality, and merge it into “the Bull's.” 
What good was there in going his own way, in fighting for 
what he thought right? Buller always had had his own 
way, and things had gone on all right. Why should he 
try and alter things? Having realised “the Bull’s” faults, 
should he not make allowance for them, seeing that his 
virtues so outnumbered his failings? He was certainly 
intolerant of any other opinions but his own; but then so 
was Ferrers, whom Gordon worshipped on the other side 
idolatry. The pity was that Ferrers was intolerant of the 
things he hated, while Buller was intolerant of the things 
he admired. It was all very difficult. For the moment 
he did not feel ready to come to any decision. He was too 
happy to trouble himself. “Sufficient for the day were 
the day’s evil things.” Let the future reveal itself. He 
would see how things turned out. 

The concert came, with its Valete of many memories. 
The school songs were howled out; hands crossed and 
swung in Auld Lang Syne; the Carmen nearly brought 
the roof down. Lying back in bed, Gordon saw little to 
regret in the school year that was just ending. Considering 
he had been second in the batting averages, he thought 
they might have given him his “Firsts” ; but it did not matter 
very much. There was heaps of time. Three years of 
fulfilment. H^lf his school life was over. The threads of 
his youth had been unravelled at last; and in the coming 
year they would be woven upon the wonderful loom of 
youth, with its bright colours, its sunshine and its laughter. 
As the spring morn flings aside its winter raiment, so he had 
put off the garb of his wandering adolescence. He was 
prepared for whatever might come. But he was certain 
that it was only happiness that was waiting for him. Three 
years of success in which would be mingled the real poetry 
of existence. He would not write his poetry on paper; 
he would write it, as Herod had written it, in every action 
of his life. His innings was just about to begin. 


BOOK IV.— THE WEAVING 


“Alba Ligustra cadunt; vaccinia nigra leguntur” 

Vergil. 

“Life like an army I could hear advance, 

Halting at fewer, fewer intervals.” 


Harold Monro. 



CHAPTER XX 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 

I T is good to dream; but “Man proposes: God in His 
time disposes,” and Gordon’s dream was scattered at 
its dawn. Hardly a week later a great nation forgot 
its greatness, and Europe trembled on the brink of war. 
During those days of awful suspense, when it was un- 
certain whether England would enter into the contest or 
not, Gordon could hardly keep still with nervous excite- 
ment. When on the Sunday before Bank Holiday J. L. 
Garvin poured out his warning to the Liberal Government, 
it seemed for a moment as if they were going to back out. 

On the Tuesday Gordon went to the Oval; Lovelace 
major was playing against Surrey. In the Strand he ran 
into Ferrers. 

“Come on, sir, I am just off to the Oval to see Lovelace’s 
brother bat. Great fellow ! Captain of the House my first 
term.” 

“Right you are. Come on. There’s a bus!” 

For hours, or what seemed like hours, two painfully 
correct professionals pottered about, scoring by ones and 
twos. Gordon longed for them to get out. A catch was 
missed in the slips. 

“Surrey are the worst slip-fielding side in England,” 
announced Gordon fiercely. The Oval crowd, always so 
ferociously partisan, moved round him uneasily. 

At last a roar went up, as Hitch knocked the leg stump 
flying out of the ground. Then Lovelace came in. He 
looked just as he had looked on the green Fernhurst sward, 
only perhaps a little broader. He was wearing the magenta 
and black of the School House scarf. He was an amateur 

265 


266 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


of the R. E. Foster type — wrist shots past cover, and an 
honest off-drive. 

A change came over the play at once. In his first over 
he hit two fours. There was a stir round the ground. His 
personality was as strong as ever. 

A boy ran on the field with a telegram for him. 

“I bet that means he has got to join his regiment,” 
said Gordon, “and it also means we are going to fight.” 

Lovelace shoved the telegram into his pocket, and went 
on batting just as if nothing had happened, just as if he 
did not realise that this was his last innings for a very long 
time. He hit all round the wicket. 

At last a brilliant piece of stumping sent him back to 
the pavilion amid a roar of cheering. 

“My word, Mr. Ferrers, there goes the finest man Fern- 
hurst has turned out since I have been there. And, my 
word, it will be a long time before we turn out another 
like him. There will be nothing to see now he has gone.” 

They wandered out into the Kennington Road, excited, 
feverish. They had lunch at Gatti’s, went into Potash 
and Perlmutter, and came out after the first act. 

“This is no time for German Jews,” said Ferrers, “let's 
try the Hippodrome.” 

It was an expensive day. They rushed from one thing 
to another. The strain was intolerable. After supper 
they went to the West End Cinema, and there, just before 
closing-time, a film, in which everyone was falling into a 
dirty duck-pond for no ostensible reason, was suddenly 
stopped, and there appeared across the screen the flaming 
notice : 


ENGLAND HAS DECLARED WAR ON 
GERMANY 

GOD SAVE THE KING! 

There was dead silence for a moment. Then cheer upon 
cheer convulsed the house. The band struck up the Na- 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 267 

tional Anthem. The sequel to the tragedy of the duck-pond 
was never known. 

“Glorious! Glorious !” said Ferrers, as they staggered 
out into the cool night air. “A war is just what we want. 
It will wake us up from sleeping; stir us into life; inflame 
our literature. There’s a real chance now of sweeping 
away the old outworn traditions. In a great fire they will 
all be burnt. Then we can build afresh. I wish I could 
go and fight. Damn my heart ! To think of all the running 
it stood at Oxford; and then suddenly to give way. My 
doctor always tells me to be careful. If I could go, by 
God, I would have my shot at the bloody Germans; but 
still I’ll do something at Fernhurst. Stoics, you know; 
Army class English. How old are you? Sixteen! We 
shall have you for two years yet. This war is going to 
save England and everything! Glorious!” 

The flaring lights of Leicester Square, the tawdry bril- 
liance of Piccadilly seemed to burst into one volcano of red 
splendour; a thousand cannons spitting flame; a thousand 
eyes bright with love of England. In a state of subcon- 
scious delirium the swaying Tube swept Gordon home to 
the starlit calm of Hampstead. 

Throughout the long summer holidays this feeling of 
rejoicing sustained Gordon’s heart. He saw an age rising 
out of these purging fires that would rival the Elizabethan. 
He saw a second Marlowe and a second Webster. His soul 
was aflame with hope. He had no doubt as to the result. 
Even the long retreat from Mons, with its bitter list of 
casualties, failed to terrorise him. Half the holidays he 
spent in Wychtown, a little Somersetshire village, and his 
enthusiasm at one time took the form of buying bundles 
of newspapers, which he distributed at the cottages, so as 
to keep everyone in touch with the state of affairs. At one 
time he thought of going round discussing the war with 
some of the villagers; but he soon abandoned this project. 
Fie began with an aged man who said he had fought at 
Dettingen. 


268 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“Well, Mr. Cavendish, and what do you think of the war 
this morning ?” 

“Lor* bless you, things beant what they were in my 
young days. At Dettingen, now, we did things a bit differ- 
ent-like. But these 'ere Germans, now, they be getting on 
right well. Be they for us?” 

After this Gordon decided that the natural simplicity 
of the yokel was proof against anything he might have to 
say. He pitied electioneering agents. 

A week before the beginning of term he received two 
letters. The first was from Lovelace, who had just got a 
nomination to Sandhurst, and would not return to school 
next term. The other was from Hunter, saying that he 
had got a commission in the Dorsets. 

“Well, Caruthers, old fellow ” he added, “this means that 
you will be captain of the House. I had greatly looked 
forward to being captain^myself , and had thought out a good 
many new ideas. But of course all that has got to go now, 
and I don’t intend to try and pass off my theories on you; 
you’ll probably have many more than I had , and a good deal 
better ones. All I can say is that I wish the very best of luck 
to you and to the House. I have no doubt you’ll do jolly 
well. Good luck.” 

Gordon sat silent for a long while. Sorrow at losing 
Lovelace strove with the wild joy of reaching his heart’s 
desire so soon. Finally all other emotions were lost in 
the overflowing sense of relief that his days of waiting for 
achievement were over. He had found the Golden Fleece. 
Nothing now remained for him but to enjoy the laurels 
he had won. He saw the future stretching out before him. 
He saw two glorious years of leadership, in which he would 
carry the House on to its rightful position of undisputed 
pre-eminence. He had the strength, and he had the power. 
He had, thanks to the influence of Tester and Ferrers, 
broken off the old shackles, the eternal prospect of impend- 
ing rows. He was safe, secure. Not for a moment did he 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 269 

doubt. He imagined his last term crowning all others; 
the batting cup his own; the senior cricket the House's; 
all the football cups shimmering on the shelf; he himself 
supreme, the figure-head. Then he would pass rose- 
garlanded out of the lighted halls, his ears half-deafened 
with applause, and take his place among the defenders of 
his country. Afterwards, it did not matter. He might 
be shot, he might come through; but whatever happened 
nothing would be able to shatter the splendid memory of 
the two years of triumph, the years that were now lying 
at his feet ! The war had awakened England from her 
slumber of a hundred years; the old tattered clothes had 
fallen off her; she was now a queen in a rainbow garment. 
And Gordon, from the depth of his heart, poured forth his 
thanksgiving to whatever gods might be, that the great 
hour had come while he was in the flush of youth, when he 
could himself drink the cup of glory to its dregs. 

In this state of enthusiasm Gordon returned to Fernhurst. 

At Waterloo everyone was talking at the top of his voice. 

“Is it true Akerman has left?" 

“Yes; got a commission in the Middlesex." 

“Good Lord ! that’ll mean Gregory captain." 

“Hunter has left, too, I hear." 

“Has he?" 

“Caruthers will be captain of the House, then." 

Broken sentences were wafted like strange music to 
Gordon’s ears. He felt that the eyes of those who once 
had been his equals looked at him with a sort of Oriental 
admiration, in which there lurked traces of fear. 

He found himself addressed with more respect. One 
or two people came up to congratulate him. The green 
flag waved. The train moved majestically westward, and 
his reign had begun. He did not feel the slightest tremor 
of nervousness. He remembered Hunter saying at the 
end of last term that it was rather ticklish work being 
captain of the House. Was it? To Gordon it seemed 
no more than the inevitable entrance into a kingdom which 
was his by right of conquest. 


270 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

The Eversham road swept in its broad curve up to the 
Abbey, black with countless moving figures. Gordon slowly 
walked up to the House. It was the privilege of School 
House prefects to enter by a small gate near the masters' 
common room. Haughtily he rang the bell. A wizened 
old lady opened the door, bowing with a “Hope you had 
a good holiday, sir." It was the first sensation of power. 

Round the notice-board in the changing-room a huge 
crowd had collected ; Gordon just murmured “Thank you," 
and two or three Eton collars moved aside to give him 
room. What a change! All the giants of the former 
generation had gone. Betteridge had, at the express request 
of the Chief, come back for one term. But he alone re- 
mained. Gordon was fifth in the House; and, good Lord, 
that amazing ass Rudd was a prefect, and second in the 
House! He and Gordon had a double dormitory on the 
lower landing. The number of boys in the House had sunk 
to sixty-two, rather a desolating thought for House 
matches. 

The Chief was not in his study. Gordon dropped a 
health certificate on his table, and gave instructions to one 
Morgan, a round-faced, ruddy youth, to shove his bag into 
his dormitory. Then he wandered over to the games study. 
And so this study was going to be his ! He had often sat 
there with Carter; but he had always felt himself rather 
an excrescence, rather out of it. But now it was his. He 
pictured the evenings after a hard game of football, sitting 
in front of the fire ; the long mornings when he was supposed 
to be preparing history for Finnemore, spent in this atmos- 
phere of luxurious calm. There was nothing so conducive 
to a well-balanced mind as artistic surroundings. He saw 
how he would furnish the room. In the broad window he 
would hang two bookshelves for his smaller books. On 
each side of the fireplace there was also room for a book- 
shelf. Then, standing against the wooden partition that 
jutted out into the room would be his large oak bookcase 
for the heavy volumes. Of course he would repaper the 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 271 

room, and a new carpet was a necessity. He went over to 
the porter's lodge to give his instructions. 

He had already decided to ask Foster to share the study 
with him. Foster would be captain of cricket next summer. 
They would get on well together. Foster never quarrelled 
with anyone; and it would be a suitable combination. 
He met Foster by the eight-ten train from Exeter, and 
informed him of the fact. He seemed quite pleased. 

# When prayers came, and Gordon stood under the mantel- 
piece behind the arm-chair where the captain of the House 
sat, and looked down at the row of new boys at the day- 
room table, it seemed incredible to him that he had ever 
been like that. And yet it was only three years ago since 
he had sat there, dazed and frightened. He had learnt a 
good deal since then, had done a good many things he 
would wish undone, but he had reached his goal at last. 
And it is the result that counts. 

Prayers were ended. Gordon sat back, his hands resting 
on the arms of his big oak chair. The Chief came round, 
shaking hands. 

“Caruthers, Foster and Davenport, you might •come and 
speak to me for a moment after you have finished your 
supper.” 

That was not long. No one had ever been known to 
touch any of the first-night soup; Gordon had often won- 
dered what happened to it. There was so much of it, and 
all wasted. 

The Chief greeted them with his invariable fluttering 
smile. 

“I suppose you know what I want you for, don’t you?” 

“I think I can guess, sir,” said Foster. 

“Well, you see, owing to the war, Kitchener had to call 
up his reserves, so I have had to call up mine. Neither of 
you three would, I think, in the ordinary course of events 
have become prefects this term. But as it is, I am sure 
you will all do quite well; and remember that being a 
prefect does not merely consist in the privilege of being 
late for breakfast. Some of you, who may very likely have 


272 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

views of your own on certain subjects, must try and make 
them conform with mine. You see, we must all try to 
work together, and I am always ready to give any of you 
advice if I am able to, and of course ” 

At this moment there came the discordant sounds that 
proclaimed the arrival of the last train from town. Gordon 
could imagine some wretched new boy huddled underneath 
the stairs, ignorant and timid. 

Rudd burst in with a health certificate and outside came 
the babble of voices. “I must go and see Chief. . . . 
Hjealth certificate . . . Confirmation classes . . . Going to 
specialise in stinks.” 

It was clear that the Chief was to have a hard time for 
the next twenty minutes interviewing all these candidates 
for a satisfactory division of labour. 

"Well, I think that is all just now, thank you, Caruthers.” 

He gave them a nod of dismissal. They filed out into 
the passage, black with its crowd of clamouring applicants. 

It was not until the next day, however, that Gordon 
fully realised the change that had come over Fernhurst. 
Nearly all the bloods had left. Gregory was still there, but 
he had sent his papers in, and expected to be gazetted in a 
week or so, and of the Fifteen of the year before he was the 
only remaining colour. Two members of the Second Fif- 
teen remained: one because he was only seventeen, the 
other, Akerman’s younger brother, because he was going 
to be a medical student and was not allowed to take a com- 
mission by the War Office. 

The staff also had undergone several changes. Ferrers 
was practically the only master under thirty. The rest 
had all taken commissions, and their places were filled by 
greybeards and bald-heads, long since past their prime. It 
was a case of extreme youth face to face with extreme 
age. 

"There will be some fun this term,” prophesied Archie 
Fletcher, for whom the immediate future stretched out into 
a long series of colossal "rags.” 

Rogers was imperially himself. The Corps was, of course, 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 273 

to be allowed considerably more time this term. There 
were two parades a week, one a company drill on Friday, 
the other a field day on Wednesday. Besides this, between 
twelve-thirty and lunch there would be section and platoon 
drill every other day. Rogers imagined that O.T.C. work 
would shortly become more important and more popular 
than football ; he saw himself taking the position once held 
by Buller. On the strength of this alluring prospect he 
bought a new uniform. 

For the first few days life was admirably disorganised. 
The time-table worked out all wrong. Gregory got gazetted ; 
and Akerman, on becoming captain, forgot the numbers 
of the football grounds, thus causing endless and hilarious 
confusion. No one quite knew what was happening. But 
everyone was entirely happy, very excited, and vaguely 
garrulous about “my cousin at the front,” and “how the 
war has changed things.” 

Gordon found that his new position brought with it 
certain other honours. In the Corps, for instance, where 
for three years he had so tempered slackness with insolence 
as to make him the worst private in the company, he 
suddenly found himself a lance-corporal, and was put in 
charge of a section. He was elected to the Dolts Literary 
Society, under the placid autocracy of Claremont, who 
called them his “stolidi.” But nothing showed more clearly 
the change wrought by the war than the fact that Gordon 
was nominated to the Games Committee, before which 
august body hardly six months ago he had cut a singularly 
inglorious figure. It was a strange irony. 

In the School House every prefect was allowed four fags, 
so as Foster and Gordon were both prefects, the games 
study had a goodly crowd of menials. For the most part 
they were simple, insignificant, Eton-collared mortals, who 
flitted round the room after breakfast with dusters, and 
at various other times of the day came in to see after the 
fire. Gordon took little notice of them. He scarcely knew 
their names. Foster had made out a list of the days on 
which each fag was on duty; one, Hare, was put in 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


274 

charge, and when anything went wrong, Hare was con- 
sidered responsible and beaten. After two such castiga- 
tions the excellence of the fagging was maintained at an 
unusually high standard. If Gordon wanted anything he 
went to the top of the stairs and bawled out “Redman.” 
He did not know or care who Redman fagged for; as a 
matter of fact, he fagged for Davenport; but Gordon had 
taken a dislike to him, and thought it was as well to keep 
him in order. It was all very unfair ; but as Mr. Lunn has 
said : “There is no trade union of fags.” 

The first month of the term passed by in a whirl of excite- 
ment. Corps work, which had once been so dull, became of 
the intensest interest; the field days by Babylon Hill pro- 
vided real excitement, in spite of the prolixity of Rogers’s 
subsequent summary of the day’s work. There were going 
to be very few football matches ; but “uppers” were played 
with all the old keenness, and there was keen competition 
for the last few places in the scrum. A series of Junior 
House matches also produced some excellent games. 
Ferrers wrote a long article to The Country on “The Public 
Schools and the War,” which bubbled over with enthusiasm. 

Gordon found authority a pleasant thing. There were, 
of course, bound to be little worries, but they were very 
transient. The new boys caused him a certain amount of 
trouble. They never would take the trouble to look to see 
if they were posted for House games. The result was that 
as often as not the House found itself playing with only 
six forwards. Gordon made a speech to the House on the 
subject. The very next day Golding, a most wretched- 
looking specimen, failed to turn up on a House game. 

Gordon gave him a lecture on the insignificance of the 
new boy and the importance of games. 

“This sort of thing can’t go on,” he said, using the 
formula that every prefect has used since the day prefects 
were first made. “If it did, we might find everyone cutting 
House games and going off to pick-ups! What would 
happen then ?” 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 275; 

Golding was far too frightened to have any views on the 
subject. 

“Well, I shall have to beat you.” 

Gordon led the way to the empty space by the cloisters 
where roll was called. 

“Bend over there!” 

Golding showed a natural reluctance to do anything of 
the sort. 

“No, right down; and lift up your coat.” 

Gordon gave him a fairly hard stroke. Golding squealed 
“Oh!” and rose, holding his trousers, and looking round 
fretfully. Gordon’s heart melted. After all, this was a 
new kid, and a pretty poor specimen at that. 

The next shot was very gentle. 

The sequel reached Gordon three days later. Golding 
had gone back down to the day-room. Rudd was taking 
hall, which was, of course, an excuse for everyone to talk. 

“How many?” asked several voices. “Did he hurt?” 

“Oh, only one and a half,” announced Golding, puffed 
out with pride. “First hardly hurt me at all, and the second 
one was quite a misfire.” 

This was rather a surprise to those who remembered 
Gordon’s driving power. Golding was thought rather a 
“lad” after all. 

Gordon, however, soon dispelled this illusion. A week 
later he went down to the House game in which Golding 
was playing and cursed him roundly all the afternoon with 
perfect justice. After tea he gave him six for slacking: 
and all delusions about Golding’s bravery were immediately 
dispelled. 

“Damned little tick,” said Gordon. “He made such a 
fuss that I let him off lightly, and then he goes down to the 
day-room and makes out I am a wreck. Collins, I charge 
thee, put away compassion! It does not pay with these 
degenerates.” 

There is nothing more interesting to the artist than 
watching a thing grow under one’s hand. And Gordon, 
who had the ambition of the artist in embryo, was thoroughly 


27 6 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

engrossed in the training of his House sides. A-K Junior 
was certainly a most promising side; it beat Claremont's 
by twenty points, and Rogers’s by over fifty. There was, 
of course, no cup for these matches. All the real House 
matches were in the Easter term, but still great interest was 
taken in them. Buller’s, Christy’s and the School House 
A-K were obviously the best; and some exciting games 
were expected. 

Morgan captained the side, and was easily the best man 
in it, but among the lesser lights there was a great display 
of energy, much of it misplaced. The worst offender was 
Bray. To watch him play was to witness a gladiatorial 
display of frightfulness. His fists flew about like a flail, 
his legs were everywhere. On the whole he did more 
damage to his own side than to his opponents. And the 
amount of energy he wasted every game in hacking the 
bodies of any who got in his way must have been very 
exhausting. Gordon had to speak to him almost severely 
once or twice. 

In the game against Rogers’s, Bray nearly got sent off 
the field. There had been a tight scrum which had more 
or less collapsed. The whistle blew. Jenks had been per- 
suaded to referee. 

“Now then, form up properly there.” 

When the two scrums assorted themselves, Bray was 
discovered about five yards from the ball, sitting on the 
head of a wretched, fat, unwashed product of Rogers’s, 
punching him violently and ejaculating after each punch: 

“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” 

Jenks looked very fierce. 

“Now then, you stupid fellows. If you go on like that, 
I shall have to report you to the Headmaster, and you know 
what that will mean.” 

Bray looked a little frightened, and for the future devoted 
his energies to the football and not the footballers, to the 
distinct advantage of the side. 

But Gordon began to find that the more his interest 
increased in House games, the less interest he took in uppers 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 277 

and Fifteen puntabouts. He was always wanting to go 
and see how his House was getting on. As soon as the first 
keenness wore off he found the interminable “uppers,” 
totally unrelieved by the excitement of matches, amazingly 
dull. Indeed, the whole school side was beginning to grow 
weary. Every Monday and Thursday there was a punt- 
about. Every Tuesday and Saturday there was the same 
game — First Fifteen v. Second Fifteen — with one or two 
masters, such as Christy, who were no longer as young 
as they had been. The result was invariably the same; 
the First Fifteen won by forty points, and were cursed 
by “the Bull” for not winning by sixty. No one could 
possibly enjoy such monotony. Every week the business 
became more” unpopular. 

“The Bull” stamped up and down with a whistle in his 
hand. 

“I never saw such slackness. What good do you imagine 
you men will be in the trenches, if you can’t last out a 
short game of rugger like this? I don’t know what the 
school is coming to !” 

The side, which had never been good, got worse daily. 
As a captain, the younger Akerman was an absolute 
nonentity. Buller was captain of the side in everything but 
name. 

“You know, Foster,” said Gordon one Saturday evening 
after a more than usually dreary performance, “these uppers 
are getting about the ruddy limit.” 

“Have you taken all this time to find that out?” growled 
Foster. “I used to like footer once. Last year we had 
a good time on those Colts games. Of course the old 
buffalo lost his hair a good deal, but the games were level 
at any rate. I can see no sort of fun in winning every time 
by forty points. Why can’t we have pick-up games, so 
as to get level sides ?” 

“I suppose 'the Bull’ wants to get the side working to- 
gether.” 

“Perhaps he does ; but why, if there are going to be no 
matches till half-way through November? The Uphill 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


278 

match is four weeks off, and till then we have to continue 
this silly farce twice a week. And, after all, it does not 
teach us defence in the least. Our three-quarter men have 
not to do any collaring. If we run up against a side that 
is any use at attack, we shall be hopelessly dished.” 

“I think we shall be dished anyhow. And I am damned 
if I care much. Buller has knocked all the keenness out 
of me, and the rest of the side say the same thing. Do 
you know, I actually look forward to Corps parade day.” 

“The same with me. I am fed to death with footer.” 

“Still we are having a jolly good time off the field, 
after all.” 

“Are we?” 

“Oh, yes; we are prefects; we haven’t got to do any 
work, and it’s awfully interesting coaching the kids.” 

Foster looked dubiously at him. He was coaching no 
sides and the term was for him particularly rotten. He also 
had to do some work for his Sandhurst exam, next term. 

But Gordon’s crown was as yet too fresh to feel the 
tarnishing damp of disappointment. 

Another new interest was provided by Betteridge’s in- 
vitation to help him in the editing of the school magazine. 
Amateur journalism is an excellent amusement for the 
young. After tea Gordon and Betteridge would sit schem- 
ing out the contents of the next number. Nearly every 
day brought something. Usually some contemporary school 
magazine ; occasionally a contribution would arrive. Gordon 
would open the envelope. 

“What’s this?” Betteridge would say. 

“Oh, some rot by Rogers about O.T.C. instruction.” 

“Heavens! that’ll mean sending up to town for a fresh 
supply of capital I’s. Anything else?” 

“Yes; an article by Burgess on ‘The Higher ./Esthetics.’ ” 

“What is it like?” 

“Same as usual. A lot of platitudes masquerading as 
epigrams.” 

“Shove it in the waste-paper basket. We must keep 
down the Buller’s upstarts.” 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 279 

Betteridge had a deep-rooted objection to “the swine 
across the road.” And besides, the object of the magazine 
under his management was to reflect School House thought 
as far as possible. There were only a few things that the 
House could keep to itself. The magazine was one of them. 

October went by with its red-gold leaves and amber 
sunlight. November swept in bringing a procession of long 
evenings and flickering lights. The first boom of the war 
fever had died down and Femhurst lay weak and exhausted. 
The Fifteen played listlessly, Upper followed Upper. 
Puntabout followed puntabout. No one cared who was in 
the side. Foster was left out — and thanked heaven! 

“I am about sick of being cursed off my feet, and told 
I shall be no good in the trenches because I miss my passes. 
‘The Bulk has gone war-mad.” 

Gordon had to keep in the side; it would not do for the 
House captain to get a reputation for slackness. His play 
lacked its old fire and dash, but was still good enough to 
earn him his place. He knew he was going off; that he 
was not nearly so good as he had been the year before; 
the thought worried him. But still A-K Junior was doing 
very well. 

One Saturday evening there came the sound of thumping 
feet down the passage, someone banged himself against the 
door, and a well-known voice was shouting: 

“H}ullo, Caruthers, my lad!” 

Gordon swung round to find Mansell, with out-stretched 
hand, looking magnificent in the top-boots and spurs of 
the R.F.A. 

“Come in. Sit down. By Jove! this is like old times. 
I must call up Archie! Archie! . . . Here’s someone to 
see you.” 

Mansell was just the same as he had been a year ago, 
only a little older, a little stronger, a little more the man 
of the world. He was full of stories; how his men had 
nearly mutinied because they thought their separation al- 
lowance insufficient; how he had chased deserters half 


28 o 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


across England ; how he had taken the pretty waitress at 
the cafe to the music hall. 

“It’s life, that’s what it is ! I never knew what life was 
till I went to Bournemouth. Oh, my God, we do have a 
time! Damned hard work, of course, but we do have a 
time in the evenings ! My lord, I nearly put my foot in it 
the other night. I saw the devil of a smart girl walking 
down the street, and I could have sworn I knew her. I 
went up and said: 'Coming for a stroll?’ O Lord, you 
should have seen her turn round. I thought she would 
fetch a policeman. And we have a jolly good footer side, 
too. We fairly smashed the S.W.B. last week. Oh, it’s 
grand. But, still, I suppose you are not having a bad time 
here. It’s good to see you lads again.” 

On the next day Mansell stood an enormous tea in the 
games study. Everyone of any importance came in. The 
gramophone played, songs were sung. Never was there 
seen so much food before. Mansell seemed like a Greek 
god who had for a moment descended to earth to reveal 
a glimpse of what Olympus was like. 

Gordon went down and saw him off by the five-forty-five. 

"My word ! I envy you, Mansell,” he said. 

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I often wish I was back again in the 
House, you know. All those old days with Claremont and 
Trundle and the footer, and all that. Oh, we had a darned 
fine time. Make the most of it while you’ve got it.” 

As Gordon walked back alone, he had the unpleasant 
sensation of feeling that the best of life was over, that the 
days of ragging, of footer, of Claremont, of Trundle had 
gone beyond recall. All the friends of his first term, 
Hunter, Lovelace, Mansell, they were all gone, scattered to 
the winds. He alone remained, and with a sudden pain 
he wondered whether he had not outlived his day, whether, 
like Tithonus, he was taking more than he had been meant 
to take. But then, as he walked through the small gateway, 
and majestically wandered up the Chief’s drive, he re- 
flected that, even if his splendour was a lonely one, without 
the laughter and comradeship he could have wished for. 


THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 281 


yet it was none the less a splendour. He must hold on. 
As Mansell had said, he must make the best of it while he 
had it. 

A small boy came up nervously. 

“Please, Caruthers, may I have leave off games for a 
week? I have just had a bad foot.” 

“Did Matron say so?” 

“Oh yes.” 

“All right, then.” 

He walked up the stairs to his study, smiling to himself. 
What had he been fretting himself about? He had his 
power. He had the things he had wanted. 

“Is is not brave to be a king? 

Is it not passing brave to be a king 
And ride in triumph through Persepolisf * 

Marlowe had been right, Marlowe with the pagan soul 
that loved material things, glitter and splendour, crowns 
and roses, red lips and gleaming arms. 

“A god is not so glorious as a king . . . 

To ask and have , command and be obeyed.” 

And there was no doubt he was a king. He must make 
the best of his kingdom while he held it. 


CHAPTER XXI 


SETTING STARS 

B UT the same atmosphere of monotonous depression that 
overhung football soon began to affect the military side 
of school life as well. At first there had been so much 
novelty. The substitution of platoon drill for the old 
company routine, the frequent field days all led to keenness. 
But even the most energetic get weary of doing exactly the 
same thing three times a week. There are only three 
different formations in platoon drill, which anyone could 
learn in half-an-hour ; and the days were long past when 
Gordon's extraordinary commands would form his platoon 
into an impossible rabble that could only be extricated by 
the ungrammatical but effective command that School 
House section commanders had used from the first day of 
militarism: “As you did ought." 

Those days were over. No mistakes. For thirty-five 
minutes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday the School 
House platoon would move round the courts in lifeless 
and perfect formation. As a change they would do some 
musketry exercises. Occasionally Morgan dropped his rifle ; 
otherwise the same air of inert faultlessness pervaded all 
proceedings. 

And after a while the School began to suspect that the 
field days were conducted mainly to satisfy Rogers's in- 
ordinate conceit. His house had always the advantage. 
The limit of endurance was reached one day early in No- 
vember, when Rogers took his house out to defend Babylon 
Hill against the rest of the corps. 

The attack was really rather brilliant. Babylon Hill 
overlooks the country for miles. There was a splendid 

282 


SETTING STARS 


283 

field of fire. It was a boiling hot day. Rogers’s men lay 
happily on the hill firing spasmodically at the khaki figures 
crawling up the long valley. Their position was almost 
impregnable. 

Early in the proceedings Ferrers, who was conducting 
the attack, realised the situation, and sent Better idge with 
the School House platoon on an enormous detour to bring 
in a flank attack. If successful the School House platoon 
would be quite sufficient to wipe out the defence, and Rogers 
would never notice their loss, as they were sent off at a 
moment when the attack was crossing some dead ground* 

Forlorn hopes occasionally come off. This time, by a 
marvellous fluke, at the very moment when the attack 
surged over the crest of the hill, Betteridge’s exhausted 
platoon, with shouts and cheers, burst into Rogers’s flank. 
There was not the slightest doubt that the defence had been 
utterly cut to pieces. 

For a minute or two Rogers stood looking perplexed at 
the sea of enemies. Then with customary urbanity he 
told Ferrers to form up his men and sit them on the ground, 
while he should give his impression on the day’s work. 

“I think the attack was quite satisfactory. Of course, 
it stood little chance against the well-organised defence for 
which I myself was in a way responsible. I believe most 
of the forces would have been destroyed coming up the 
hill. But I think the day had a good effect on the morale 

of the troops. Now morale ” He enlarged on the 

qualities of morale and discipline for about ten minutes, 
and concluded with the following courteous reference to the 
School House flanking movement: — 

“I could not clearly discern what those persons were 
doing who came up on my left. They would have been 
entirely wiped out. I thought it rather silly myself.” 

A contemptuous titter broke from the School House 
platoon, in which amusement and annoyance were equally 
mixed. 

“What is the good of trying at all?” said Gordon at tea 
that night. “There were we, sweating over ploughed 


284 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

fields, banging through fences, racing up beastly paths, and 
then that mouthing prelate says ‘rather silly'! What's 
the use of trying?" 

“There is none," said Betteridge. “I am going to con- 
duct this platoon in future on different lines. ‘Evil be 
thou my good,' as the lad Milton said. We will be un- 
orthodox, original and rebellious." 

And so military enthusiasm went tumbling down, to take 
its place among the illusions that were being so fast shat- 
tered in this world of change. 

Corps parade and uppers became equally dull and 
monotonous, and the House sought for a way of instilling 
life into their dull activities. They could not, of course, play 
the fool with football. “The Bull" was too big a man. 
Although he did not know it, the things he had given his 
life to were falling in ruins about his head. The war had 
taken the life out of the old order, and the school was 
growing tired of the domination of games. The twilight 
of the gods had come. Many were beginning to agree with 
Ferrers, who was shouting for a breaking of the old bonds. 
“The Bull" knew nothing of this. To him the old was 
still the good. There was something splendid in his loyalty 
to old dreams. He trampled among his broken toys, king 
of his nursery to the last. 

Rogers, on the contrary, had never been a king, and it 
was by no means impossible to bring his rule into ridicule. 
A few days later, Gordon and Rudd were walking up Cheap 
Street, when in a boot-shop they saw displayed a wondrous 
collection of coloured silk shoe-laces. 

“Does anyone really wear those things?" said Gordon. 

“I suppose so," said Rudd, “or they wouldn’t show 
them." 

“They are certainly most amazing." 

They stood looking at them as one would look at a 
heathen god. Then suddenly Gordon clutched Rudd’s 
sleeve. 

“A notion! My word, a notion! Let’s buy some pairs 
and wear them at platoon drill to-morrow." 


SETTING STARS 285] 

Gordon was about to burst in to the shop when Rudd 
detained him. 

‘‘Steady, man, this is a great idea. Let’s buy enough 
for the whole platoon. It will be a gorgeous sight ! Let’s 
fetch Betteridge.” 

Flinging prefectorial dignity to the winds, they rushed 
down to the studies. 

“Betteridge, you’ve got to let us draw upon the House 
funds for a good cause.” 

They poured out the idea. Betteridge was wildly en- 
thusiastic. For six shillings they bought forty pairs of 
coloured laces. 

At twelve-thirty next morning a huge crowd lined up 
under the lindens to watch the School House parade. 
Rumour had already flown round. 

It was a noble spectacle. Each section wore a different 
coloured shoe-lace. Gordon’s wore pale blue, Rudd’s pink, 
Foster’s green, and Collins’s orange. Everyone was shaking 
with laughter. Betteridge formed the platoon up in line 
facing the School House dormitories ; sooner or later Rogers 
would pass by on his way from the common room. At 
last he was sighted turning the corner of the Chief’s drive. 
Half the school had assembled by the gates. 

“Private Morgan,” shouted Betteridge, “fall out and do 
up your shoe-lace. 

“Remainder — present ARMS !” 

Rogers was far too self-satisfied and certain of his own 
importance to see that the demonstration was meant for 
him. But the school saw it, and so did certain members of 
the staff, who made everything quite clear to Rogers that 
afternoon. Finally, the Chief learnt of the affair. Better- 
idge got a lecture on military discipline and on prefectorial 
dignity. But a good many of the younger masters 
thoroughly enjoyed the rag, and the story of the coloured 
shoe-laces is still recounted in common room, when Rogers 
has made himself unusually tedious about his own virtues 
and his cleverness in scoring off his enemies. 


CHAPTER XXII 


ALBA LIGUSTRA 

T HE Tonford match was a sad travesty of Fernhurst 
football. The school lost by over forty points. 
Gordon got his “Seconds,” in company with nearly the 
entire Fifteen. He was not very elated. These things had 
lost their value. Still, it was as well to have them. 

The school authorities then came to the conclusion that 
the expense of travelling was too great during war-time. 
The Dulbridge match was scratched. 

The Fifteen continued to play uppers. There was noth- 
ing to train for. There was no chance of there being any 
matches, but the same routine went on. The junior house 
matches were nearly over. A-K and Buller’s were in the 
final. There was every prospect of an exciting game. The 
School House side went into training. Gordon talked 
about nothing else in the hall. He spent whole evenings 
sitting with the cheery, imperturbable Morgan devising 
schemes. Everyone wanted to see Buller’s routed. 

And then the day came. On a bright November after- 
noon, with a sharp wind blowing, a drying ground and ideal 
conditions, the House were beaten by thirty-seven points 
to nil. It was a lamentable performance. There was no 
fire or dash in the side. Morgan made heroic but vain at- 
tempts to instil some flash of life into them. The collaring 
was pitiable. No one fell on the ball. 

That evening Gordon had the whole side up into his 
study and cursed them. 

“This house has always had the reputation of playing 
the hardest football in the school. We have been beaten 
a good many times, sometimes by over fifty points, but we 

286 


ALBA LIGUSTRA 


287 

have always played hard for the Thirds. Two years ago 
we put up a magnificent fight, though we had a side that 
was absurdly weak on paper. Last year we won the Thirds, 
and nearly won the Two Cock. You people to-day, with 
an excellent side on paper, flung away the game by slack, 
rotten football. It was a disgrace to the House. If that 
is the sort of way the House is going to play in the future, 
we shall never win another match. It was simply awful, 
and I hope you are damned well ashamed of yourselves.” 

All the things Gordon had cared for seemed upon the 
razor-edge of destruction. This first failure was ominous. 
For three years he had worked to one end. It had been his 
perpetual dream to lead the House to victory. Others had 
led her some of the way. Now apparently he was power- 
less to do anything. And yet he remembered “the Bull” 
telling him he had influence and personality. What use 
were they if they could not win matches ? And then in the 
wild, ungoverned tempest of his rage he swore that, what- 
ever happened, he would not waste himself. He would not 
bow down before fate. If the House could not obtain su- 
premacy, it should at least obtain independence. The House 
should not, under his rule, slip into the easy path of medi- 
ocrity. It should still be a power in the school. All he 
needed was opportunity; and just at this very time the 
sword of chance was put into his hand. 

One Sunday after morning chapel Foster and Gordon 
and Collins were sitting in the games study, when Bet- 
teridge came in with the air of one who has great things 
to announce. He sat down on the edge of the table. 

“You know,” he said at last, “ ‘the Bull’ is really a bit of 
an ass.” 

“Good Lord! man,” drawled Foster, “if you have got 
nothing better to tell us than that, for heaven's sake get out. 
We have known that for a considerable time.” 

“Listen, my children,” said Betteridge. “The mighty 
man has just summoned me to his study. He was all 
bubbling over with some new scheme about voluntary 
gym. for the Sixth.” 


288 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


“I say, I hope you didn’t encourage him, did you ?” asked 
Gordon anxiously. Exemption from Swedish drill was one 
of the Sixth’s most cherished privileges. 

“Not exactly. But he did most of the talking. You see, 
apparently, as the junior house matches and the school 
matches are over, he is afraid the school may not get 
enough exercise, so he wants the Sixth and V.A to do 
voluntary gym. three times a week on days when we don’t 
do platoon drill.” 

“Good Lord ! is that all ?” 

“Not quite. He wants me to get the names of all those 
who are willing to go. Apparently he is rather counting on 
us, as we have drill the same days as Christy’s and James’s. 
And as there are only two men in James’s above V.B, 
and four in Christy’s, it will be rather a mangy squad unless 
we roll up in force. He seems quite assured of a good 
muster roll from his house, and Rogers’s and Claremont’s.” 

“So I should imagine,” said Gordon. “Voluntary com- 
pulsion seems rather a specialty among the outhouses. 
But, look here, you haven’t let us in for this, have you? 
Because, if so, you are really a bit of a rotter.” 

“Oh no; I have dealt full generously by you. I said I 
couldn’t promise anything. But I promised I would gO' 
round canvassing. I had to break the news to him that 
I shouldn’t be there myself owing to impending exams. 
He didn’t enthuse a bit.” 

“No; and he will enthuse a jolly sight less in a day or 
two,” said Gordon. “Foster, a bit of paper. Thank you.” 

He began to write out a notice. 

“How does this strike you? ‘Owing to the proximity 
of the boxing competition, there will be sparring practice in 
the changing-room at twelve-thirty on days when there is 
no platoon drill.’ ” 

“Behold a second Machiavelli,” said Betteridge. 

“And I think we will date this for Saturday, so that if 
anyone makes a fuss we can point to it as a previous ar- 
rangement. Now, Betteridge, collect your gymnasium en- 
thusiasts.” 


ALBA LIGUSTRA 


289 

As the greater portion of the House learnt boxing, there 
was considerable difficulty in getting anyone for the gym. 
squad. But after some gentle persuasion, Betteridge, with 
the air of one who has overcome great difficulties, was able 
to inform Buller that Rudd thought he might be able to 
come once a week, and Davenport would also drop in oc- 
casionally. 

As Gordon had expected, he received a summons from 
“the Bull” in second hall. 

“Caruthers, er, sit down, will you — it’s about this gym. 
business. You see, I think it would be a good thing for 
the Sixth and V.A to do some exercises; they do a lot 
of it in the New Army. Very good thing, and I wish your 
house had sent some more. Don’t you think you could 
persuade them? I asked the heads of houses to see into 
this matter, as I didn’t want it athletic at all, but perhaps 
Betteridge has hardly pressed the point. Don’t you think 
you might use your influence, Caruthers?” 

Gordon was sorely tempted to give way. “The Bull” was 
so decent about it all. He did not seem to realise that any 
opposition was being raised. Why cause more trouble? 
Two lines of Tennyson came back to him: 

“ Musing upon the little lives of men 
And how they mar that little by their feuds’ 

and then he saw that he had to go on. The House had 
taken up an attitude ; it would be a betrayal if he went back 
upon them now. 

“Well, sir, you see, at great inconvenience to ourselves 
we have decided to have some boxing classes then; and 
there is no other time to have them.” 

“But don’t you think in a case like this you might cancel 
the boxing?” 

“For gym., sir? Surely boxing is much more use than 
gym. And besides, sir, the competitions are so close.” 

“My good boy, can’t you see it’s for Fernhurst I am 
doing this? Surely the school is more important than the 
House.” 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


290 

“Yes, sir; but I thought the whole object of this was to 
train those in the Sixth and V.A. And if my house have 
already got a scheme for training, surely that is all that is 
needed. And, after all, isn’t it voluntary, sir?” 

“I can’t understand you, Caruthers. You are all for your 
house against the rest of the school. Why must you al- 
ways try to split away from the rest? Don’t you care for 
your school at all ? I don’t know what I have done to put 
you up against me. I have tried to be just to you. . . . 
Well, this is the last time I shall ask you to do a keen thing 
for Fernhurst; you are too engrossed in your egotism to 
see big. That’s all.” 

Gordon walked back to the House rather depressed. He 
liked “the Bull” ; he couldn’t help liking him, in spite of the 
way he infuriated him at times. He would like to be 
friends with him; he thought “the Bull” wanted to be 
friends with him. And yet he began to realise that, as long 
as he was at Fernhurst, it was impossible for them to be 
friends. “The Bull” wanted to pull every string. He 
managed to do so in the school at large. But the House 
had always clung to its independence. It was a clash of 
personalities. It had always been the same. He remem- 
bered the rows between Lovelace and “the Bull.” Those 
two were great friends now. Perhaps in a few years he 
too 

“Hullo!” came the voice of Foster. “Had a pleasant 
chat?” 

“Oh, ripping. The gym. scheme will cease as far as we 
are concerned. I am afraid it will be rather a disappoint- 
ment to Davenport and Rudd.” 

Next day the House were laughing at the way Caruthers 
had scored off “the Bull.” As Gordon walked past the 
changing-room he heard someone say: 

“Well, thank God, we have at last got a House captain 
who will stick up for our rights. Some ‘lad,’ is Caruthers.” 

“Victory is sweet after the stress of the laborious days,” 
murmured Gordon, as he strolled down to hall. 

But this triumph was only a watery gleam of sunlight. 


ALBA LIGUSTRA 291 

The dull drab monotony soon set in again: the war had 
altered so much. Everything that the Public School sys- 
tem had stood for seemed in the melting-pot. In a way this 
was good. Ferrers was amazingly optimistic about it; but 
for Gordon “the pillar’d firmament was rottenness.” All 
the things he had worked for became without value. Once 
games had been the pervading influence in his life; during 
the last year, it is true, poetry and art had claimed much of 
his allegiance, but for all that his belief in games had not 
been shaken. And now he found it hard to stimulate any 
interest in them, except where the House was concerned; 
and he realised that then it was the House that he cared 
for, not the game itself. As he lay back in his arm-chair 
in the evenings it all became clear to him. He saw that for 
years generation after generation of Fernhurstians had 
worshipped at the altar of a little tin god. He saw athleti- 
cism as it really was, shorn of its glamour, and he knew its 
poverty. It led no whither. He wondered if boys, as soon 
as they left school, realised of what little real use profi- 
ciency at rugger was as training for the more serious issues 
of life; if they understood how trivial it was, when it 
ceased to culminate in the glory of a gold-tasselled cap. He 
wondered why no one had tried to alter things. Perhaps 
they thought it better to let youth play with its toys as 
long as possible, be happy while it could, since happiness is 
of all mortal possessions the most ephemeral. They were 
right, perhaps. At any rate his toys, for they were only 
toys, had been broken to pieces. He knew that he would 
probably never play rugger again after he left Fernhurst; 
and once he and Lovelace had made plans to form an old 
boys’ team! It was rather funny. He was glad Lovelace 
had left when he had. This term would have been a 
very disquieting one for him. Hie might not have under- 
stood. 

In the first week of December the Essex Yeomanry chal- 
lenged the Second Fifteen to a match. There was no regu- 
lar Second Fifteen at all. But Akerman collected fifteen 
people who had played on uppers and trials without playing 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


292 

against Tonford, dressed them up in blue shirts, and turned 
them out to represent the school. It was an amusing 
enough match. Most of the Essex Yeomanry had been 
bred on soccer, the rest on lacrosse, and they played as 
such. In the end they just managed to keep the score 
under one hundred to nil. 

Next morning a crowd was surging round the notice- 
board. Collins charged up to Gordon’s study fuming. 

“Caruthers, man, have you seen the board? The whole 
side have got their Seconds.” 

“What do you mean ? We have all had our Seconds for 
weeks. Do you mean Firsts?” 

“No, you ass; that second side have all got nice blue 
caps with velvet tassels. Foster, Archie, the whole bloom- 
ing crowd. And that means that there is one First Fifteen 
colour in the school, Akerman, our revered captain, and 
twenty-nine Second Fifteen caps? The Bull’ must be 
mad !” 

Gordon sat quite still for a minute or two thinking. 

“Collins,” he said at last, “see that cap hanging over the 
‘Sir Galahad’ picture? Yes, that’s it, the Second Fifteen 
cap. Do you mind just flinging it on the top of the cup- 
board over there. Thank you. The thing is not worth 
having now. Don’t go. Sit down. 

“For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground, 

And tell strange stories of the death of Kings.” 

Everything was falling to pieces. Gordon began to 
realise that as soon as we get a thing we no longer want it. 
Achievement is nothing, the quest is all. Depression de- 
scended on him. He envied so much those who had left 
in the flush of their glory, and stepped into the ranks of 
their regiments, fresh with the undimmed laurels. He had 
to stay on to see his dreams shattered, to watch hope after 
hope go down. He was wiser now. He saw the pitiful 
poverty of his former aims; but wisdom had not brought 
him happiness. No one likes to learn that they have wasted 
three years of their lives striving for a crown of withered 


ALBA LIGUSTRA 


293 

bays. An extraordinary irony lay in the fact that out- 
wardly he was so successful. Homage of a sort was paid 
him; he was certainly the most important person in the 
House. The rest did not seem to understand. They were 
upset, bored, worried, but they did not know why. They 
did not see that the ground was slipping under their very 
feet. 

Betteridge understood; but then he had known it the 
whole time. He had not felt the sickening shock of dis- 
covery. Ferrers had shouted for years against the cult of 
athleticism ; he was thundering now. But Gordon was com- 
pletely, utterly miserable. He had to stay on two more 
terms at least, watching pack after pack go tumbling down. 
Two terms ! Why, a little while ago he was revelling in 
the prospect of two more years, two years of complete 
realisation. The idea was intolerable now. He would 
write to his people and get them to take him away. His 
place was at the front, with the happier leaders of other 
years. Ferrers would stay on for years, and at last see the 
school becoming what he had wanted it to become. Bet- 
teridge was leaving at the end of the term; the rest, they 
would pass by ; go on unnoticed, uncared for. He was the 
lonely antagonist of destiny, going down scornful before 
many spears. 


CHAPTER XXIII 
ROMANCE 


A ND in this state of depression, longing only for some 
means of temporarily dulling his senses, Gordon first 
began to take an interest in Morcombe. Morcombe was con- 
siderably Gordon’s junior; not so much in years — there was, 
as a matter of fact, only a few months between them — as 
in position. Morcombe had come late; had made little 
mark at either footer or cricket; and had finally drifted 
into the Army class, where, owing to private tuition and 
extra hours, he found himself rather “out of it” in the 
House. In hall he used to sit at the top of the table ; and 
it was usual for the prefect, when he had grown tired of 
wandering round, asking if anyone wanted any work done, 
to talk to the top two at the table. Taking hall was so un- 
utterably dull (unless, of course, Rudd was the hall-keeper, 
on which occasion an impromptu concert was held) that 
any kind of distraction was welcomed by the weary prefect 
on duty. 

Gordon very rarely took hall. He generally managed to 
find someone to assume the duty for him; but one day 
everyone seemed engaged on some pursuit or other, so 
with every anticipation of a thoroughly rotten evening he 
went down to hall. He began to read Shelley, and found 
it impossible. The surroundings were unpropitious to 
lyric poetry. All about him sat huddled fragments of hu- 
manity scratching half-baked ideas with crossed nibs into 
dog-eared notebooks. There was a general air of unrest. 
Gordon tried Sinister Street; some of the episodes in Lep- 
ard Street were more in harmony with his feelings, but 
there was in Compton Mackenzie’s prose a Keats-like per- 

294 


ROMANCE 


295 

fection of phrase which seemed almost as much out of 
place as the Adonais. As a last resort Gordon began to talk 
to the two boys nearest him, Bray and Morcombe. Bray 
always amused him; his whole outlook on life was so ex- 
actly like his footer. But for once Gordon found him 
rather dull. Morcombe was much more interesting. There 
was something about him that made an irresistible appeal 
to Gordon. 

In second hall that evening Gordon discovered from a 
House list that Morcombe was in the Army class. He con- 
sulted Foster on the subject. 

“Know anything about a lad called Morcombe ?” 

“Yes; he is in the Army class. Rather a fool. Why?” 

“Oh, nothing. I was talking to him in hall to-night. He 
didn’t seem a bad kid.” 

“Perhaps he may be. I haven’t taken much interest in 
him.” 

“Oh, it is nothing.” 

Gordon returned to his book. Five minutes later he 
began again. 

“Is Morcombe fairly high in form?” 

“Not very. Why this interest all of a sudden?” 

“Nothing.” 

Foster looked at him for a second, then burst into a roar 
of laughter. 

“What the hell’s the matter with you ?” said Gordon. 

“Oh, nothing.” 

Gordon looked rather fierce; and returned once more to 
the history of Michael Fane. 

Two nights later Gordon came into his study to find 
Morcombe sitting with Foster, preparing some con. 

“Hope you don’t mind me bringing this lad in,” said 
Foster. “I am in great difficulties with some con.” 

Gordon grunted, and proceeded to bury himself in The 
Pot of Basil. 

“I say, Caruthers,” broke in Foster. “You might help 
us with this Vergil, will you? It’s jolly hard. Here you 
are: look, ‘Fortunate Senex 


296 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

Gordon went through the familiar passage with com- 
parative ease. 

“There now, you see, ,, said Foster, “there's some use 
in these Sixth Form slackers after all. By the way, what 
did you think of Claremont's sermon last night?" 

Conversation flowed easily. Morcombe was quick, and, 
at times, almost amusing. Foster let Gordon and him do 
most of the talking, and Gordon unaccountably found him- 
self trying to appear at his best. 

“You know," he was saying, “I do get so sick of these 
masters who go about with the theory of 'God's in his 
heaven, all's right with the world,' and in war-time, too! 
With all these men falling, and no advance being made 
from day to day.” 

“Yes," said Morcombe; “I agree with the 'much good, 
but much less good than ill' philosophy." 

Gordon was surprised out of himself. 

“Good Lord! I shouldn't have thought you had read 
the Shropshire Lad.” 

“We are not all Philistines, you know." 

Thus began a friendship entirely different from any 
Gordon had known before. He did not know what his real 
sentiments were ; he did not even attempt to analyse them. 
He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he was 
indescribably happy. There was something in him so 
natural, so unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this 
Morcombe came up to Gordon’s study nearly every evening, 
and usually Foster left them alone together, and went off 
in search of Collins. 

Indeed this friendship, coupled with his admiration for 
Ferrers, was all that kept Gordon from wild excesses dur- 
ing the dark December days and the drear opening weeks 
of the Easter term. During the long morning hours, when 
Gordon was supposed to be reading history, more than 
once there came over him a wish to plunge himself into the 
feverish waters of pleasure, and forget for a while the 
doubts and disappointments that overhung everything in 
his life. At times he would sit in the big window-seat, when 


ROMANCE 


297 

the school was changing class-rooms, and as he saw the 
sea of faces of those, some big, some small, who had drifted 
with the stream, and had soon forgotten early resolutions 
and principles in the conveniently broadminded atmosphere 
of a certain side of Public School life, he realised how easily 
he could slip into that life and be engulfed. No one would 
mind ; his position would be the same ; no one would think 
worse of him. Unless, of course, he was caught. Then 
probably everyone would turn round upon him; that was 
the one unforgivable sin — to be found out. But it was 
rarely that anyone was caught; and the descent was so 
easy. In his excitement he might perhaps forget a little. 

And then, perhaps, Ferrers would come rushing up to his 
study, aglow with health and clean, fresh existence. And 
he would talk of books and poetry, and life and systems, 
and Gordon would realise the ugliness of his own misgiv- 
ings when set beside the noble idealism of art. Ferrers was 
not a preacher; he never lectured anyone. He believed in 
setting boys high ideals. “We needs must love the highest 
when we see it.” And during these months his influence 
on Gordon was tremendous. 

Then, when the long evenings came, with Morcombe 
sitting in the games study, his face flushed with the glow 
of the leaping fire, talking of Keats and Shelley, himself 
a poem, Gordon used to wonder how he could ever have 
wished to dabble in ugly things, out of his cowardice to 
face the truth. Those evenings were, in fact, the brightest 
of his Fernhurst days; their happiness was unsubstantial, 
inexplicable, incomprehensible, but none the less a real 
happiness. 

They vanished, however ; and the day would begin again, 
with the lonely hours of morning school, when Gordon 
realised once more the emptiness of his position, and how 
hopelessly he had failed to do any of the things he had set 
out to do. 

He began to agree with Sophocles that “Not to be bom 
is best.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


VACCINIA NIGRA 

T HE state of affairs was summed up by Archie Fletcher 
in the last week of the Christmas term. 

“This place is simply ghastly now,” he said ; “all the best 
fellows have gone. Next term we shall have that awful 
ass Rudd head of the House. Then all the young masters 
have gone, and we are left with these fossils, fretting be- 
cause they are too old to fight, and making our lives un- 
bearable because we are too young. As soon as I am old' 
enough I mean to go and fight; but I can't stick the way 
these masters croak away about the trenches all day long. 
If you play badly at rugger you are asked what use you will 
be in a regiment. If your French prose is full of howlers, 
you are told that slackers aren't wanted in the trenches. 
Damn it all, we know that all these O.F.'s who are now 
fighting in France slacked at work and cribbed; and they 
weren’t all in the Fifteen. And splendid men they are, too. 
These masters forget and panic about. Fernhurst isn’t 
what it was. Last term we had a top-hole set of chaps, 
and I loved Fernhurst, but I am not going to stick here 
now. I am going back home till I am eighteen. Then I'll 
go and fight. This is no place for me." 

It was the requiem of all “the old dreams" ; and Gordon 
knew it for his own as well. 

During the Christmas holidays Gordon tried to forget as 
far as possible Fernhurst, and all that Fernhurst stood for. 
More and more he found himself turning for consolation 
to the poets; but now it was to different poets that he 
turned. The battle-cry of Byron, the rebel flag of Swin- 
burne, lost their hold over him. He himself was so en- 

298 


VACCINIA NIGRA 


299 

tangled in strife that he wanted soothing companions. In 
the poetry of Ernest Dowson he read something of his own 
failure to realise the things he had hoped for. Endymion, 
rolling like a stream through valleys and wooden plains, 
carried him outside the hoarse babble of voices; Comus 
lulled him into a temporary security with its abundance of 
perfect imagery. For the first time he went down to The 
Poetry Bookshop in Devonshire Street, and it was to him 
as a dim chapel, where the echoes of the world were lost. 
There was a perfect serenity in the small room at the top 
of the wooden stairs, with the dark blue curtains, the intent 
faces, the dim, shaded lights, the low voice reading. It 
seemed the very sanctuary of art. He wished that thus, in 
some monastic retreat, he might spend his whole life in a 
world of dreams and illusions. But he realised that the 
hold of life was too strong on him. At the same time he 
loved and hated the blare of trumpets, the stretching plain, 
the spears glimmering in the sun. He had sought for power 
and position; and yet when they were won he despised 
them. The future was impenetrable. But he returned for 
the Easter term determined to do his duty by the House, 
however much he might disappoint himself. 

On the very first day of the term “the Bull” called him 
up. 

“Caruthers,” he began, “you remember there was some 
talk last year about altering the conditions of the Three 
Cock. Well, I think it would be much better in every way 
if we could come to some arrangement by which you should 
play against two houses instead of three. You see, condi- 
tions are so very changed. When the match was started 
you had ninety boys and each outhouse had thirty. Now 
you have under seventy and each outhouse over thirty- 
five. It is ten years now since you won, and it is a pity it 
is not more of a game. Because your men can’t enjoy it, 
and I know mine don’t. What do you think?” 

“I think we would all rather go on as we are at present, 
sir.” 

“But don’t you see how hard it is for you ever to win ?** 


3 oo THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

“Yes, sir; and it is also rather hard for us to accept 
charity.” 

“Well, of course ; I can't force anything on you. It is a 
matter for you to decide. But it does seem a pity to make 
a match like the Three Cock a permanent farce, merely 
because you are too proud to see that you can’t take on the 
whole school. We’ll discuss the matter at the end of the 
term again.” 

When the House learnt of this interview it raged furi- 
ously. 

“Confounded insolence calling it a farce,” said Foster. 
“And, after all, we stand a jolly good chance of winning, 
you know. Heavens! we will boot them to blazes.” 

Everyone in the School House considered the idea of a 
change preposterous. Gordon alone realised that the pres- 
ent was an impossible state of affairs. Sixty-four against 
a hundred and twenty! After all, they couldn’t hope to 
win more than once in six years. He pointed this out to 
Morcombe in second hall that evening. 

“As a matter of fact, if we win this year, I believe I 
shall go to ‘the Bull’ and offer to change it.” 

“But why?” said Morcombe. “There are times when 
I can’t understand you, and this is one of them. Surely, 
if we win, it is a proof that we are good enough to go on 
playing! Why stop then?” 

“Because, if we did win, it would be only once in a way. 
And I can’t bear to think of our giving in after a beating 
by seventy points. It is an anti-climax. I would much 
rather lay down our privilege willingly. That’s why I ad- 
mire Sulla so much. At the very height of his power he 
laid it down, and went into a glorious retirement. His is 
the most dramatic exit in history. I should like the House 
to do that. We have taken on too big a thing. We have 
got to give in sooner or later.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Morcombe; “and I suppose 'the 
Bull’ thinks you are thoroughly conceited and proud.” 

“I believe so,” said Gordon. “But let us talk about some- 
thing else.” 


VACCINIA NIGRA 


301 

As a whole the Easter term began far more satisfactorily 
than the Christmas term had ended. 

There were no “uppers.” House captains ran every- 
thing. Gordon was a sort of dictator. He might have been 
quite happy; he might have flung himself with a whole- 
hearted enthusiasm into the training of House sides, had 
he not learnt the term before the littleness of athleticism. 
In the days when he had never doubted at all, he had 
thought that the only object of an Easter term was to win 
House matches. And even now, because he knew that the 
House's reputation depended so much on athletics, he 
spared no effort towards that end. Yet he knew that he 
and the House were wasting their lives, seeking vain things 
in a land of sand and thorns. It made him sick to think of 
a whole house working for nothing but ephemeral athletic 
triumphs. And he saw that others, too, were beginning 
to realise this. Once or twice when he had been talking to 
Davenport about the House chances, he saw a look come in 
his eyes of amused contempt, which seemed to say: “Do 
you, with your literary tastes, really imagine the winning 
of a House match is of such vast importance?” 

But at the beginning of the term, at any rate, life was not 
so unpleasant. Morgan had been promoted into the Lower 
Sixth, and Gordon found him a most entertaining person. 
Naturally clever and naturally indolent, Morgan’s work 
presented a strange contrast. He and Gordon would settle 
down to prepare CEdipus Tyr minus for Finnemore. They 
would begin lethargically. After ten lines Morgan would 
ask whether they had done enough; Gordon would fling a 
book at his head ; somehow or other they would slop through 
thirty lines. Then Morgan would shut his book, and 
refuse to do any more. 

“Thirty lines is enough for Finnemore, and, besides, I 
feel rather slack to-night.” 

Gordon did not take the trouble to point out that the 
same feeling of slackness overcame him every night. 

They would both pull up their chairs in front of the fire, 
and waste the rest of hall talking. The next morning, 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


302 

however, Gordon would discover that the lines they had 
prepared the night before conveyed no meaning to him at 
all. He would curse Morgan, and then go up to the library, 
rout out Jebb's translation, and prepare the Greek. Then 
he would move across to school with the contented feeling 
of work well done. 

Morgan would be put on to con. Gordon would wait, 
laughing to himself. He was sure Morgan would make 
an awful mess of things. But somehow or other he always 
managed to translate it correctly, if not stylishly. 

“Morgan, you did that again when I wasn't there,” 
Gordon would say afterwards. 

“Oh no; we prepared it pretty well last night for a 
change.” 

After a while Gordon got used to this apparent miracle ; 
but he himself had invariably to consult the English au- 
thority. He did not tell Morgan that. The climax was 
reached when Finnemore, who liked Gordon and thought 
him rather clever, wrote in Morgan's report: “He relies 
rather too much on Caruthers's help for his Sophocles 
translation.” It was an interpretation that had occurred 
to neither. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 

S LOWLY the Easter term moved on. As the days went 
by the sense of failure, which had overhung everything 
Gordon had done the term before, returned with an in- 
creased poignancy. The Thirds ended in a defeat which 
was rendered no more pleasant by the fact that it was in- 
evitable. The House played quite well. Morgan was an 
excellent captain, and the best man on the field, but he was 
not backed up at all by a weak and light side. No one 
expected the House to win. The defeat was no reflection 
on Gordon's captaincy. The Chief, in fact, had come to 
him and said: 

“Well, Caruthers, of course we were much too small a 
side, but I think we put up a very plucky fight. I don’t 
think you have anything to grumble at. They did much 
better than I expected, at any rate.” 

But Gordon was always too prone to judge by results. 
He contrasted the game with last year’s triumphs, and with 
the glorious defeat of the year before, which had brought 
more honour than many victories. The House seemed in- 
capable of holding out any longer. Its day seemed to have 
passed, at the very moment when they were all expecting 
such great things. It was very different from what he had 
hoped for. There would not be much to remember his 
captaincy by. 

One morning towards the middle of February he was 
glancing down the casualty list, when he saw Jeffries’s name 
among those killed. He put the paper down, and walked 
very quietly across to his study. Jeffries was well out of 
it, perhaps ; but still Gordon wished he could have seen him 
once more. That last terrible scene in Study 16 rose clear 

303 


3 o 4 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

before his eyes. He could almost hear the bang of the 
Chief’s door. And now Jeffries was dead; and no one 
would care. A master, perhaps, might notice his name 
and say: “J ust as well; he would have made a mess of 
his life.” They had never known Jeffries. 

'‘You look rather upset this morning,” murmured Mor- 
gan from a corner of the room. Gordon had not noticed 
him. 

“I am rather; a chap who had a study with me . . . Jef- 
fries ... he is in the casualty list this morning.” 

“A. R. Jeffries, is that?” 

“Yes. But you didn’t know him, did you?” 

“Oh no; but I saw his photo in a winning Thirds group, 
I think.” 

“Yes, that would be him. He was a fine forward.” 

Gordon was glad to think that that was what his friend 
was remembered for. Only the good remained. It was 
as Jeffries would have wished. . . . 

The Two Cock drew near. There had been a good chance 
of winning once, but influenza had played havoc with the 
side. Gordon told them they were going to win, encouraged 
them, presented a smiling face, but his heart was heavy. 
He saw another cup going to join the silver regiment on the 
Buller’s sideboard; another hope broken. He had never 
found life quite so hard before; only Morgan’s unshatter- 
able optimism, Ferrers’s volcanic energy, and his own 
friendship for Morcombe made things bearable at all. And 
yet he had all the things he had once wanted. Now Bet- 
teridge had left, he was indisputably the biggest man in the 
House. Rudd was a sadly broken reed. At last he began 
to see that the mere trappings of power might deceive the 
world, but not their wearer. 

A week before the Two Cock Tester paid an unexpected 
week-end visit. He was full of vitality and exuberance. 
He was just the same, debonair, light-hearted, thoroughly 
happy. Everyone was pleased to see him; he was pleased 
to see everyone. He was almost hilarious at times. But 
as Gordon watched him carefully, his mirth seemed like 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 305 

that of Byron in Don Juan, laughter through his tears. 
The others did not notice, because they had never known 
Tester. 

Just after prayers he met Tester on his way back from 
supper with the Chief. 

'‘Hullo! I have been looking for you,” he said; “come 
for a stroll round the courts.” 

“Well,” said Tester, as soon as they were out of earshot, 
“what do you make of it?” 

“Pretty awful.” 

“Yes, I suppose you have seen a good many ideals go 
tumbling down. All our generation has been sacrificed; of 
course it is inevitable. But it is rather hard. The older 
men have seen some of their hopes realised; we shall see 
none. I don’t know when this war will end; not just yet, 
I think. But whenever it does, just as far as we are con- 
cerned the days of roses will be over. For the time being 
art and literature are dead. Look at the rotten stuff that’s 
being written to-day. At the beginning we were deceived 
by the tinsel of war; Romance dies hard. But we know 
now. We’ve done with fairy tales. There is nothing glori- 
ous in war, no good can come of it. It’s bloody, utterly 
bloody. I know it’s inevitable, but that’s no excuse. So 
lare rape, theft, murder. It’s: a bloody business. Oh, 
Caruthers, my boy, the world will be jolly Philistine the 
next few years. Commercialism will be made a god. 
Beauty and art will be stamped out.” 

“Do you mean there is going to be nothing for us after 
the war?” said Gordon. 

“Not for you or me; for the mass, perhaps. No one 
can go through this without having his senses dulled, his 
individuality knocked out of him. It will take at least 
twenty years to recover what we have lost, and there won’t 
be much fire left in you and me by then. Oh, I tell you I 
am frightened of what’s coming after. I can’t face it. Of 
course there may be a great revival some day. Do you 
remember what Rupert Brooke said in Second Best about 
there waiting for the ‘great unborn some white tremendous 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


306 

daybreak’? Well, that’s what may happen. But our gen- 
eration will have been sacrificed for it. I suppose we should 
not grumble. But we only live once; only once shall we 
glory in the wind, and the sea, and love and the ecstasy of 
being alive. And it’s all smashed; we shall have never 
really lived.” 

“Yes,” said Gordon slowly, “it is hard on us. I think 
Jeffries is well out of it. I hadn’t seen it in that light 
before. I have been so bound up in my own disappoint- 
ments. Everything I had longed for has crumbled to dust.” 

“It is the same with all of us,” broke in Tester. “Do 
you remember that day of the Hawley match, and what I 
said about Oxford? Well, I had just longed for Oxford. 
I wanted to begin life over again, to sweep out the past. I 
was beginning to realise what beauty meant. And then 
down comes the war. And I don’t suppose I shall ever 
have a chance now. I don’t know whether there is an after 
life or not, but if there is, I shall cut a pretty sorry figure, 
if there is going to be a judgment. Well, it is my own 
fault. I put things off too late. But I should have been a 
different chap, I think, if ” 

Foster’s voice rang out across the night: 

“Come on, you two. What are you doing out there? 
The coffee’s boiling over. Buck up.” 

“Right you are,” shouted back Tester. 

In a second he had put on again his old pose of indiffer- 
ence. He played his part through thoroughly; no one, as 
he danced with Collins up and down the narrow study, 
would have associated him with the despairing philosopher 
of a few moments ago. Gordon looked at him in amaze- 
ment. What a consummate actor he was! How success- 
fully he kept his true character to himself, as something too 
sensitive for the crowd to look at. 

Early on the Sunday morning he went back to his regi- 
ment. Gordon walked down to the station with him. 

“I am going to the front in about a week, you know,” 
said Tester, as they were standing on the platform. 

“Good Lord! man, why didn’t you tell us before?” 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 307 

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want them all unburdening 
themselves to me. . . . Here’s the train. Well, good-bye, 
Caruthers. Good luck.” 

“Thanks awfully; and mind you come back all right.” 

Tester smiled at him rather sadly. 

“I am not coming back,” he said. 

The Two Cock came and went. The score was not very 
high against the House. But it was a poor game. The 
school deserved to win, because they played less badly than 
the House. But there was very little life in the game. 
This may have been due to a heavy field day two days 
before ; but whatever it was, the result was pitiable. Gordon 
had almost ceased to expect anything. Day followed day. 
Everyone was discontented; even Ferrers began to doubt 
whether the war was having such a good effect on Public 
Schools after all. He said as much in an article in The 
Country. He was always saying things in The Country. 
It was his clearing-ground. 

The Three Cock drew near. And each day Gordon began 
to think the House less likely to win. He had watched the 
outhouses play, and knew how good they were. One after- 
noon the Buller’s captain challenged the House to a friendly 
game. A very hard game resulted in a draw. There was 
nothing to choose between the sides. And in the Three 
Cock Buller’s would have Claremont’s and Rogers’s to help 
them. 

There were discussions in the House as to whether the 
score would be kept under twenty. Someone suggested it 
would have been a much better game if they had accepted 
“the Bull’s” offer of playing two houses instead of three. 
When the day came the outhouse bloods were confidently 
laying three to one on their chances of running up a score 
of over thirty. 

As Gordon sat in his study after lunch, before going 
down to change, he found it hard to believe that this was 
actually the day that he and his friends had looked forward 
to for so long. It was to have marked the start of a new 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


3°8 

era of School House greatness. It was to have been the 
beginning of the new epoch. With a slightly cynical smile 
he compared it with the way in which the Germans had 
toasted “Der Tag!” Both results would be much the same. 
Lethargically he got up, put a coal or two on the fire, and 
went down to change. 

The game followed much the same course that other 
Three Cocks had followed during the last four years. 
For the first half the House did fairly well, and kept the 
score down to thirteen to nil. Collins played magnificently ; 
Morgan was in form ; Gordon himself was not conspicuous. 
Then came the second half, when the light School House 
pack grew tired, and was pushed about all over the field. 
The cheering of tries grew desultory, and unenthusiastic. 
The final score was forty-seven to nil. 

“You know, Caruthers,” said Collins on the way up 
from the field, “we should have done better to have only 
taken on two houses.” 

“Yes,” said Gordon shortly. 

As soon as he had changed, he went over to “the Bull's” 
study. He had already decided that it would be better to 
alter the condition of the match once and for all. It meant 
to him the complete failure of all his plans. His whole 
career seemed wasted. He had set out to lead the House 
to victory. In the end not only had he retired, he had 
actually surrendered. 

“The Bull” received him quite kindly. 

“Ah, come round about the match, Caruthers?” 

“Yes, sir. I think we had better play a Two Cock in 
future. Three houses are a good deal more than we can 
take on.” 

“Well, of course, I had seen that all along,” said “the 
Bull.” “It is too much. The conditions are so changed. 
Well, of course, we can’t do this without the consent of the 
Games Committee. I think we had better have a meeting 
to-morrow afternoon. You might tell the others, will you?” 

On the next day after lunch the Games Committee met 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 309 

in “the Bull's” study. “The Bull” stood with his back 
to the fireplace. 

“Well, you know, I have called you here this afternoon 
about the Three Cock. Of course conditions have so 
changed that it would be no reflection on the School 
House ” 

“The Bull” went on. Gordon sat forward on the sofa 
listening subconsciously. Scenes rose before his mind. Of 
Mansell two years back, after Richard’s Thirds, shouting: 
“Wait till 1915.” Of Hazelton in the dormitory saying: 
“Our day’s coming, and you’ll see it, Caruthers.” Every- 
one had expected this year to be such a triumph. And here 
he was signing, as it were, the death warrant of School 
House football. 

“The Bull” had finished speaking. ... A resolution 
was passed. . . . 

“Well,” said “the Bull,” “it is a lovely day, and I don’t 
want to keep you in. I expect you all want to be out doing 
something.” 

Gordon got out of the study somehow or other. 

One of the Games Committee came up to him. 

“Jolly good idea of ‘the Bull’s/ I think. It was much 
too big a job for you. Much better arrangement.” 

“Oh, much,” said Gordon. 

He went back to the old games study, the very walls of 
which seemed eloquent with voices of the dead. The rest 
of the House had gone for a run. He was all alone. His 
head fell forward on his hands. It was all over. The 
captaincy he had tried so hard to gain had ended in pitiable 
failure. He had to drag through one more term, and then 
go out, having left behind him nothing but shattered dreams. 
It was the desolation, the utter desolation! . . . 

All that he had worked for during those four years lay in 
dust at his feet. Nothing remained. Out of all his experi- 
ences and emotions he had harvested nothing that would 
help him through the long, arid journey of life. He had 
only a few ecstatic moments to look back upon, a few hopes 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


3 io 

that had not been realised, a few shadowy illusions. Noth- 
ing tangible remained. 

And as Gordon's mind dwelt on this the love of the 
monastic life which had so overwhelmed him the holidays 
before swept over him again with renewed vigour. In the 
Roman Church at any rate was there not something per- 
manent? Quod semper , quod ubique, quod ab omnibus. 
. . . That boast was surely not in vain. He longed to 
surrender himself completely, to fling away his own aims 
and inclinations, and abandon himself to a life of quiet 
devotion safe from the world. It was the natural reaction. 
He had been tossed on the waters of trouble and had grown 
weary of strife. In Plato's Republic Ulysses asked for the 
life of a private individual free from care. “After battle 
sleep is best. After noise, tranquillity." Dowson's ex- 
quisite lines on the Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration came 
back to him : 

“They saw the glory of the world displayed , 

They saw the bitter of it and the sweet. 

They knew the roses of the world would fade 
And be trod under by the hurrying feet. 

Therefore they rather put away desire. . .." 

That was what he wanted, to merge himself into the great 
silent poetry of the Catholic life. The Protestant creed 
could never give him what he wanted. There was too much 
tolerance, too much sheltering of the individuality; he 
wanted a complete, an utter surrender. He passed the 
entire holidays in the world of ideas; he read nothing but 
poetry, or what dealt with poetry. He tried to recapture 
the wonderful full-blooded enjoyment of that last summer 
term. But for all that he found material thoughts stealing 
in on his most sacred moments. A chance phrase, a word 
even, and there would suddenly rise before him the spectre 
of his own failure. And he was forced to realise that as 
yet he was unfit to lay down the imperious burden of his 
own personality. The hold of life was too strong. He still 
wanted the praise of the populace, “the triumph and the 
roses and the wine." 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 


3ii 

Well, there was one more term; let him make the most 
of the roses while he could. In this state of vague in- 
decision he returned for what was to be his last term. 

A big programme of First Eleven matches had been ar- 
ranged; and the first game was at Uphill on the second 
Saturday of the term. Fernhurst won with ease, and 
Gordon knocked up forty-two. The match was over before 
tea; and, as the side had not to go back till six o’clock, 
they spent the interval in walking round the grounds. 

Few schools are situated in more perfect surroundings 
than Uphill. There are wide gardens and flowery walks. 
Rhododendrons were flaming red and white, a hedge of 
gorse shone gold. It was a Roman Catholic school, and 
now and then a noble Calvary rose out of the flowers. The 
Abbey watched over the place. Monks in long black robes 
moved about slowly, magisterially. Gordon went up to 
one of them and spoke to him shyly: 

“A wonderful place this, sir.” 

( “Yes; it is the right sort of place to train a boy in. 
Surround him with beautiful things, make a real perception 
of beauty the beacon light of his life, when he is young, 
and he will be safe. For there are so many things that are 
beautiful and poisonous like iridescent fungi, and it is so 
hard to differentiate between the true and the false. But 
everything here is so pure and unworldly that I think we 
manage to show our boys what is the highest. We fail at 
times, but on the whole we succeed.” 

He looked so kind, so sympathetic, this old man, that 
Gordon felt bound to pour out his feelings to him. 

\ “You know, sir,” he said, “I have awfully wanted to 
talk to a Roman Catholic whom I thought would under- 
stand me, and especially one like yourself, who has willingly 
abandoned all his own ambitions. There is something very 
fine in the complete surrender of your Church. In ours 
there is so much room for difference of opinion, so much 
toleration of various doctrines. There seems so little cer- 
tainty. In Rome there seems no doubt at all.” 

“Yes, the Catholic Faith is a very beautiful creed,” said 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


312 

the old man; ‘‘we are misjudged; we are called narrow- 
minded and bigoted. They say we want to make everyone 
conform to one type, and that we bind them with chains. 
But, my son, it is not with chains that the Holy Church 
binds her children. It is with loving arms thrown round 
them. The Church loves her children far too much to 
wish them to leave her even for a minute. She wants them 
entirely, hers and hers alone. Perhaps you will say that 
is selfish; but I do not think so. It is the great far-seeing 
love that sees what is best for its own. Love is nearly 
always right. But if you wish to keep your own views, 
to worship God in your own way, well, there are other 
creeds. Protestantism, it seems to me, lets out its followers, 
as it were, on strings and lets them wander about a little, 
laugh and pluck flowers, in the certainty that at the last 
she can draw her own to her. Well, that is one way of 
serving God, and in the Kingdom of God there is no right 
or wrong way, provided the service be sincere. There are 
many roads to heaven. Our road is one of an infinite love 
that draws everything to itself. There are other ways; 
but that is ours.” 

“But supposing there was a person,” said Gordon, “who 
really wanted to surrender himself to that perfect love, but 
who found the call of the world too strong. You know, 
sir, I should give anything to be as you, safe and secure. 
But I know I should break away; the world would call me 
again. I should return, but when I give myself, I want to 
give myself wholly, unconditionally. I want there to be 
no doubt; and I want to come to-day.” 

“I will tell you a story,” said the monk. “I was a boy 
here years ago, and there was one boy, brilliant at games 
and work, whom I admired very much, and by the time 
I had myself reached a high position he came back to us as 
a monk. I used to live in a little village, just behind that 
hill, and I used to ask him down to supper sometimes. And 
I remember one day my father said to him: ‘You know, I 
envy you a lot/ 

“ ‘Why ?' he asked. 


THE DAWN OF NOTHING 


3i3 

“ ‘Well/ said my father, ‘as far as this world is con- 
cerned you are well provided for. You live in beautiful 
surroundings, comfortable and happy. And for the next 
world, as far as we know, no one could be more certain of 
happiness than you.’ 

“The young monk looked at my father rather curiously, 
and said: 

“ ‘Perhaps so ; but when I look round at your happy little 
family and your home interests, I think we have given up a 
good deal/ 

“And only a year later that young man ran away with a 
girl in the village, and he was excommunicated from the 
Church. And yet I expect that the whole time he really 
loved our life best ; only the call of wordly things was too 
strong; and he was too weak/' 

“Then what will be the end of me?” asked Gordon. 

“Wait, my son. I waited a long time before I knew 
for certain that God's way was best, and that the things men 
worshipped were vain. Those are the most fortunate, 
perhaps, who can see the truth at once, and go out into the 
world spreading the truth by the influence of a blameless 
life. But we are not all so strong as that. It takes a long 
time for us to be quite certain; and even then we have to 
come and shut ourselves away from the world. We are too 
weak. But we have our place. And in the end you, too, 
I expect, will so probe the happiness and grief of the world 
and find them of little value, and when you have, you will 
find the Holy Church waiting for you. It does not matter 
when or how you come; only you must bring yourself 
wholly. It is not so very much we ask of you. And we 
give with so infinite a prodigality/' 

“Yes," said Gordon, “I suppose there will be rest at 
last." 

That evening as he sat discussing the cricket match with 
Morgan the captain of the school came in and gave him 
his “Firsts." Morgan was profuse with congratulations. 
Everyone seemed pleased. It was the hour he had long 


3 14 the loom of youth 

pictured in his imagination — the hour when he should get 
his coveted “Firsts.” He himself had wanted them so 
badly ; but somehow or other they did not mean very much 
just now. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 

B UT the heart of youth is essentially fickle; and Gor- 
don’s lambent spirit, which had for some time almost 
ceased to strive for anything, suddenly swept round to the 
other extreme, and was filled with the desire to reassert 
itself at all costs. Suddenly, almost without realising it, 
Gordon was fired with the wish to finish his school career 
strongly, not to give way before adversity, but to end as he 
had begun. He would be the Ulysses of Tennyson, not of 
Plato. “Though much is taken, much abides . . . ’tis 
not too late to seek a newer world.” . . . Like a tiger 
he looked round, growling for his prey, and his opportunity 
was not slow in coming. 

Ferrers was sitting in his study one afternoon, talking 
very despondently about the general atmosphere at Fern- 
hurst. 

“It is not what I had hoped for,” he said; “in fact, it 
is quite the reverse. The young masters are gone, the 
bloods are gone. The new leaders are not sure of their 
feet, and these old pedants have taken their chance of 
getting back their old power. And the whole school is so 
discontented, fed up; no keenness anywhere. The masters 
tell them: ‘You don’t get on in games; then you’ll be use- 
less in the trenches.’ Wretched boys begin to believe them. 
They think they are wrong, when really they are just be- 
ginning to see the light. They are beginning to look at 
games as they are. There’s no glory attached to them now 
— no true victories — glamour is all removed. They see 
games as they are, see the things they have been worship- 
ping all these years. But the masters tell them games are 
right, they are wrong; it is their duty to do as others did 

3i5 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


316 

before them. Oh, I wish we could smash those cracked 
red spectacles through which every Public School boy is 
forced to look at life.” 

“But can’t we, sir?” 

“It would be no good; they wouldn’t believe you. I 
am getting sick. For years I have been shouting out, and 
trying to prove to them what’s wrong. They won’t believe. 
They are blind, and it is the masters’ fault, curse them. 
There they sit, talking and doing nothing. I begin to 
worship that man, I forget his name, who said: “Those 
who can, do — those who can’t, teach.’ It sums up our 
modern education. It is all hypocrisy and show.” 

“But, sir,” said Gordon, “we can’t do much, but let’s 
do what we can. Now, when the glamour has fallen off 
athleticism, let’s show the school what wretched things 
they have been serving so long. If we can in any way 
put a check on this nonsense now, if in Fernhurst only, we 
shall be doing something. After the war we shall have a 
fine Fifteen winning matches, and the school will feel its 
feet. We must stop it now — now, when there is no glamour, 
when the school is tired of endless 'uppers,’ and sick of 
the whole business. Now’s the time.” 

“Yes; but how? This sort of thing doesn’t happen in a 
night.” 

“I know; but we can sow the seeds now. The Stoics 
is the thing. We can have a debate on the 'Value of 
Athletics,’ and, heavens ! I bet the whole House will vote 
against them. The House is sick of it all. We’ll carry the 
motion. We’ll get the best men to speak. We’ll give 
sound arguments. Then we’ll have formed a precedent. 
It will appear in the school magazine that the Stoics, the 
representative society of Fernhurst thought, has decided 
that the blind worship of games is harmful. It will make 
the school think. It’s a start, sir, it’s a start.” 

“You are right, Caruthers, you are right. We’ll flutter 
the Philistine dovecots.” 

Gordon had not the slightest doubt about the success of 
the scheme. He himself was at the very summit of his 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 


3i7 

power, and he had a rollicking lead to start with. He had 
been making scores for the Eleven out of all proportion to 
his skill; he was almost certain for the batting cup. His 
influence was not to be discounted. He could get the House 
to vote as he wanted; he was sure of it. He told Daven- 
port of the scheme, and he also was enthusiastic. 

“By Jove! that’s excellent. It’s about time the school 
realised that caps and pots are not the alpha and omega of 
our existence.” 

The air was full of the din of onset. 

Nearly the whole House attended the meeting, and the 
outhouses rolled up in good numbers, more out of curiosity 
than anything else. They thought the whole thing rather 
silly. There had been a debate more than two years back 
on “whether games should be compulsory.” Only six had 
voted against compulsion. “The Bull” remembered this, 
and came to the debate, strong in his faith in the past. He 
wanted to see this upstart Ferrers squashed. 

Ferrers himself opened the discussion with a volcanic 
attack on the whole Public School system. 

“How much longer,” he finished, “are we all going to 
waste our time, our energy, our force on kicking a football ? 
We have no strength for anything else. And all the time, 
while Germany has been plotting against us, piling up 
armaments, we have been cheering on Chelsea and West 
Ham United. Look at the result. We were not prepared, 
we are only just getting ready now. And why? Because 
we had wasted our time on trivial things, instead of things 
that mattered ; and unless we turn away from all this truck, 
trash and cant about athleticism, England is not going to 
stand for anything worth having.” 

He sat down amid tempestuous applause. The audience 
were really excited. They had gradually grown sick of 
games during the last two terms, and now apparently they 
had the best authority for doing so. Everyone likes being 
congratulated. 

The opposition suffered in having Burgess to support 
them. We have heard of him before. Years had not 


3 1 8 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

altered him much. He was the same conceited, self- 
righteous puppet as of old. People got tired of listening 
to him. There was a sound of shuffling, a window began 
to bang with unnecessary noise. He sat down to an 
apathetic recognition. 

Davenport then made a very biting speech against games. 
‘“The Bull” was surprised to see him speaking on Ferrers’s 
side. He was in the Second Fifteen, and a very useful 
outside. 

“Whatever we may have done before the war,” he cried, 
“and we did many foolish things, it is quite obvious that 
now this worship of sport must cease. Let us hope it is 
not revived. We are sent here to be educated — that is, to 
have our minds trained ; instead of that, we have our bodies 
developed, our minds starved. We play footer in the after- 
noon, we have gym. at all hours of the day, and other 
experiments in voluntary compulsion, such as puntabouts 
after breakfast. The result is we work at our play, and 
play at our work. . . .” He elaborated the scheme in an 
amusing way. There was a lot of laughter. “The Bull” 
looked fierce. Rudd, who had for a “rag” insisted on 
speaking for the opposition, discoursed on the value of 
“mens sana in cor pore sano.” Everyone shrieked with 
laughter. 

He finished up thus: 

“Well, look at me. I am the hardest-working fellow in 
the school.” A roar of laughter went up. Rudd had 
nearly been deprived of his position of school prefect for 
doing so little work. “I am also a fine athlete. To-day 
I clean bowled two people on the pick-up, and hit a splendid 
four over short-slip's head. I am what I am because of 
our excellent system of work and play. Look at me, I say, 
and vote for athleticism.” 

Buffoonery is often more powerful than the truest ora- 
tory. * 

The motion was put before the House. 

A lot of people spoke. All in favour of the motion. It 
was great fun watching “the Bull’s” face grow gradually 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 319 

darker. Morgan said that only fools and Philistines cared 
for games. They were amusing to pass an afternoon with, 
and because one had to have exercise, but that was all. 

Gordon waited till near the end, then he got up. 

“I must first congratulate everyone on the broadminded 
view they have taken of this important question; and I 
think it is an infallible proof that the days of athletic 
domination are ended. For, after all, is it any wonder that 
clear-thinking men like A. C. Benson pull our system to 
pieces, when we have to own that for the last twenty 
years at least the only thing Public School boys have cared 
about is games? And with such a belief they go out into 
life, to find the important posts seized by middle-class men 
who have really worked. No one works at a Public School. 
People who do are despised. If they happen to be good at 
games as well, they are tolerated. It is a condemnation 
of the whole system. And, after all, what are games? 
Merely a form of exercise ; we have got to keep our bodies 
healthy, because, as Mr. Rudd so wisely put it, a healthy 
mind means a healthy body. Games were invented because 
people wanted to enjoy their exercise. We all enjoy games. 
I love cricket; but that does not make me worship it. I 
like eating; but I don’t make a god of a chocolate eclair. 
We can like a thing without bowing down to it, and that’s 
how we have got to treat games. Some fool said 'the battle 
of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton’; and 
a fool he was, too. Games don’t win battles, but brains 
do, and brains aren’t trained on the footer field. It is 
time we realised that ; and I think from the way the speak- 
ing has gone to-night, the school is beginning to under- 
stand. And now is the chance to show that you think so. 
There are no good athletes in the school to-day, the Eleven’s 
rotten and the Fifteen is worse. Men like Lovelace major 
were almost worth worshipping, because they were men; 
they made athletics appear grand, because they were such 
glorious creatures themselves; but there are none of that 
sort here now. We can see games as they really are without 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


3 2 ° 

any false mist of sentiment, and we can see that for years 
we have been worshipping something utterly wrong.” 

Gordon's speech really made an impression. After all, 
he was a blood, one of the best all-round athletes in the 
school, and if he thought like that, there must be something 
in what so many people were saying who ran down games. 

The question was put to the vote, and was carried by an 
enormous majority. 

“The Bull” looked for a moment at the crowd of faces 
that had spurned the things he admired, looked as one who 
saw nothing, turned on his heel and strode out of the 
room. The door crashed behind him. As far as Fernhurst 
was concerned, the days of a blind worship of sport were 
over; a new ideal would be set before the new generation. 
“The Bull’s” greatness was at an end. Time, sweeping 
in with its change and new standards, is no respecter of 
persons. 

“Well, we won! Glorious!” said Ferrers. 

“Yes,” said Gordon, “ ‘we have lit this day a candle that, 
by the grace of God, shall never be put out’!” 

He went down to hall, flushed with triumph. After all, 
there were some compensations for everything ; but he could 
not remove the feeling that out of all the change and tur- 
moil of his Fernhurst career he had retained nothing tangi- 
ble. He had written his name upon water; he had as 
yet found nothing that would accompany him to the end 
of his journey. He knew that his friendship for Morcombe 
would lead to nothing: very few school friendships last 
more than a year or so after one or other has left. He 
thought of Byron’s line : “And friendships were formed too 
romantic to last.” It was too true, he had yet to find his real 
ideal. He was about to begin the serious battle of life. He 
was standing on the threshold. The night was black be- 
fore him; he had no beacon fire to lead him. He dimly 
perceived that beauty was the goal to which he was striving. 
But he had only a vague comprehension of its meaning. 
He had no philosophy. Doubtless in the end the Roman 
Church, the mother of wanderers, would take him to her 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 321 

breast. But that was a long way off yet, and he wished 
to bring himself to the final surrender, strong and clean- 
hearted, not a vessel broken on the back-wash of existence. 
And yet he had no true guide for the years that stretched 
before him. This last episode of the debate seemed to 
bring it home to him more clearly. His life had so far been 
composed of isolated triumphs and isolated defeats, which 
had not yet so combined one with another as to form a 
bedrock of experience which would serve as a standard for 
future judgments. He had walked past and made merry, 
careless of what the next day would bring. He had fought 
with “the Bull” ; and in the struggle he had achieved some 
things, and failed to achieve more. He had at one time 
prayed for the long contention to cease; at another he 
had laughed in the face of his enemy, flushed with the 
joy of battle. Gazing back on his past, he seemed to stand 
as a spectator, watching a person who was himself and yet 
not himself, going through a life of many varied experi- 
ences, now plunging in the mud, now soaring to the heights. 
But the incidents only affected him in a dull, subconscious 
manner. He had learnt nothing from them. His school 
days would soon be over, and yet he felt as though he were 
beginning life all over again. He had found nothing that 
could stand the wear of time and chance. 

But still there remained a few more weeks of Fernhurst; 
whatever happened, he swore that he would finish as be- 
fitted a king. “Samson would quit himself like Samson.” 
There would be time enough for doubts and introspection 
when it was all over, when for the last time the familiar 
eight-forty swept him out of Fernhurst’s life for ever. At 
present it was his to leave behind him a name that would 
survive a little while, “nor all glut the devouring grave.” 
It should be remembered of him that during his day of 
power he had never once given way, had stood his ground, 
had never known the poignancy of the “second-best.” 

Until now Gordon had never really quarrelled with any- 
one in his own house. All his encounters had been with 
outhouse men or “the Bull”; he might have helped to 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


322 

make the House feel independent of the school, but he had 
always aimed at the unity of the House’s aim. It was a 
pity that his last contest should have been with the head 
of his own house. 

Rudd was a bad head; there could be no doubt about 
that. His dormitory made him apple-pie beds, and soaked 
his candle in water, so that it would not light. The day- 
room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never minded. 
In comparison with Rudd’s weakness his own strength 
shone the more. It made him so essentially the biggest 
power in the House. But things reached a limit shortly 
after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in to help him 
in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the prefects. 

It all arose from a most “footling” source. Rudd was 
taking hall, and the usual music hall performance was in 
full swing. Bray had asked to borrow some ink, and having 
once gained a pretext for walking about, was dancing up 
and down the floor singing What would the Seaside he with- 
out the Ladies? Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a 
certain Stockbrew, imagining himself a poet, immortalised 
the occasion with the following stirring lyric: — 

“Ruddy-doodle went to tozvn 
In his little suit of brown, 

As he could not -find his purse 
He cried aloud, ‘Oh, where’s my nurse?”* 

Like the famous quatrain The Purple Cow, this poem 
immediately achieved a success totally out of proportion 
to its merits. It was passed slowly down the table. Finally 
it reached Bray. 

“Ah, Rudd,” he said, “I believe this is meant for you.” 

Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red. 

“Who wrote this?” 

Proudly the author claimed his work. 

“Well — er — let me see,” said Rudd: “it is er — gross im- 
pertinence. Come and see me after breakfast to-morrow.” 

The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences 
on him ; Bray recommenced his wanderings. 

That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects’ meeting 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 


323 

to discuss the affair. He pointed out that it was gross 
insolence to a prefect, and that a prefects’ beating was the 
recognised punishment for such an offence. Gordon pro- 
tested vehemently. 

“But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a week-kneed 
ass as to be ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well 
oughtn’t to be head of the House. And, by the way, we 
haven’t heard this masterpiece of satire read out yet.” 

“I don’t think there’s any need,” said Rudd. 

“Well, I think there is,” said Gordon. “I am not going 
to see a kid beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read 
the thing out!” 

With many blushes Rudd read it out. 

“Ah, jolly suitable, too,” said Foster. “What you want 
is a nurse. Good lord, man, can’t you look after yourself 
down in hall. Jolly ignominious, isn’t it, having to call 
up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine example to the 
rest of the House, isn’t it?” 

“Well,” stammered Rudd, “I don’t pretend to be a 
strong prefect.” 

“You certainly aren’t,” said Foster. 

“That’s beside the point,” said Rudd. “I have been 
cheeked by Stockbrew, and I am a prefect. The punish- 
ment for that is a prefects’ beating. There’ll be a pre.’s 
meeting here to-morrow at eight, and if you have anything 
to grouse about, go to the Chief.” 

He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama. 

“I don’t think we’ll go to Chief,” said Gordon, “he would 
be utterly fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be 
made an ass of by Rudd. Think what fools we shall look 
trotting about on Rudd’s apron strings like policemen after 
a cook.” 

“Well, what can we do?” said Davenport. 

“Do ? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We 
have got to give this lad a pre.’s beating. There’s no way 
out of it. We have got to. But if we let the House know 
about this, a crowd will collect ; Rudd will go first and make 
two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in rota- 


324 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

tion. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with 
laughter; it will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look 
a most sanguinary ass.” 

“I see,” said Foster. “Hats off to the man with the 
brain.” 

“But is it quite the game?” suggested Davenport, a 
stickler for etiquette. 

“Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? 
In this world, unfortunately, two blacks invariably make 
a white.” 

“I suppose it’s all right,” said Davenport. 

No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon 
usually got their own way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon 
went to tell Morgan the glad tidings. The news was all 
round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was generally 
regarded as a priceless fool ; it was sure to be awfully good 
sport. 

Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at 
Rudd's study. He was terribly overcome at the sight pf 
so formidable a gathering. He wished he had padded. 
No one had told him of what was to happen. It would 
have spoilt the situation. 

The prefects sat in chairs round the room ; Rudd, terribly 
nervous, was perched on the table. He delivered as short 
a lecture as possible on the sacredness of the prefectorial 
dignity and the insignificance of the day-room frequenter. 

In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stock- 
brew led, Rudd followed, cane in hand. It was all very^ 
impressive. Round the V. A green runs a stone path; 
a good many people were clustered there; there were faces 
in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the 
right; even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left. 

“Quite an audience for this degrading business,” sighed 
Foster. 

“ ‘Butchered to make a Roman holiday/ ” said Daven- 
port, who loved a stale quotation. Stockbrew bent over the 
chain that ran round two sides of the green. Rudd de- 
livered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred un- 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 325 

comfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont read- 
ing a poem by Mrs. Browning on “the great God Pan” and 
how cruel it was to “make a poet out of a man 1” He saw 
her meaning now. Then the farce began. 

Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim's coat, 
stepped back as if preparing a brutal assault, and then 
flicked him twice. A roar of laughter broke from all sides. 
Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet. 

Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then 
the rest of the prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking 
with laughter. 

Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. 
What little dignity he had ever had had been taken from 
him. Everyone had seen his ignominy. He would never 
be able to do anything more in the House. 

The next night he took hall a pandemonium broke out 
such as never had been heard before. A game of cricket 
was played with a tennis ball and a Liddell and Scott; 
Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided to clinch 
his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked 
straight in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no 
notice of Rudd whatever. 

“Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down 
here. I heard it right across the courts. The Chief might 
hear it easily. You have got to shut up. If I hear any 
more noise I shall give every man two hundred lines; 
so shut up.” 

There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had 
ceased to count in House politics. To all intents and 
purposes Gordon was head of the House, and the House 
regarded him as such. Rudd was generally known as the 
“nominal head.” Gordon had got his power, and for the 
next six weeks he decided to enjoy it to the full. On 
the cricket field, although not quite keeping to the promise or 
the luck of May, he yet did well enough to make the batting 
cup quite certain. There was now no fear of any defeat 
clouding his last days. He had ceased to worry himself 
with analysing his emotions. He just let himself enjoy 


326 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

the hour of happiness while he still had it, and did not 
trouble to question himself how long it would last. He 
had passed through the time of blind depression during the 
Easter term when he had seen hope after hope go down: 
he had come through somehow. It did not matter with 
what inward searchings of heart. Outwardly he had been 
a success. Now his outward triumph was even more pro- 
nounced. As a few weeks before he had been too prone to 
look at the inward to the total exclusion of the outward 
aspect of things, now he began to consider only the things 
that seem. It was the swing of the pendulum. It re- 
mained for him to find the media via. 

The last days of June and the early weeks of July passed 
by in a dream of happiness. In the mornings he lounged 
in his study, reading novels, or talking to Morgan. The 
afternoons went slowly by like a majestic cavalcade, with 
the white figures, the drowsy atmosphere of the pavilion, 
the shadows lengthening across the ground. And then the 
evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in his study getting 
helped in his work, or talking about books and people and 
ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had quite 
an average side, but no one expected them to do very 
much, and it was rather a surprise when, by beating 
Christy's and Claremont’s, they qualified to meet an ex- 
ceptionally strong Buller’s side in the final. Foster and 
Gordon looked forward to their last match at Fernhurst 
with the cheerful knowledge that they had no chance of 
winning, and that therefore they had nothing to fear of 
disappointment. And it might be quite a jolly sort of 
friendly game to finish up with. The days raced past so 
quickly that it came as a shock to Gordon to discover that 
his last week, with its examinations and threatening form 
lists, had really come. 

“I shall be sorry to leave, you know,” he said to Foster. 
“I am not at all looking forward to the army; it’s going 
to be jolly monotonous.” 

‘‘Last Christmas I would have given anything to get 
out of this place,” Foster answered. “But now, my Lord ! 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 327 

I wish I was coming back. We've had a jolly good time 
this term.” 

“I don't like the idea of losing it all so suddenly. We 
sha'n't ever be able to get it back. Still, we have got one 
more week before us, to enjoy ourselves.” 

The first three days of the week it rained incessantly. 
The Senior final was postponed till the Thursday. Ex- 
aminations took their desultory course. Gordon had often 
in the past slacked in exams, but never had he treated them 
in quite the same indifferent way as he did this term. He 
had no intention of spoiling his last days by working. 
Every morning the Sixth went in for a three hours’ paper, 
at nine-thirty. Before eleven Gordon had always shown 
up his papers, and strolled out of the room to read Paradise 
Lost in his study. In the afternoon he usually managed to 
toss off the two hours' exam, in three quarters of an hour. 
He was bottom in every paper; but of all performances 
his history paper was perhaps the most daring. The form 
were doing European history since Waterloo — a period 
which Gordon was supposed to have been studying since the 
summer of 1914. He scored fifteen marks out of two 
hundred, and Finnemore informed him that he had been 
overmarked at that. Six questions were set, out of which 
three had to be chosen. Gordon completed the whole paper 
in a quarter of an hour. 

He glanced down the page. No. 1. To whom was the 
unification of Italy due? 

There was no doubt about that. He wrote “Cavour” 
and looked on to No. 2. It was something about the Berlin 
decrees. He had never heard of them, and passed on to 
No. 3. “Give an estimate of Napoleon III.'s character.” 

That was quite easy. He could give a clean-cut cameo 
impression of that monarch in two lines. Holland Rose 
put it so clearly: “A dreamer who unfortunately allowed 
his dreams to encroach on his waking moments.” 

The next two questions both looked impossible. 

They were about the 1848 revolution, a question that he 
had always said life was too short to worry about. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


328 

The last question, however, was perfectly simple: 

“Illustrate by historical examples the truth of the state- 
ment 'the people are the rulers of the rich/ " 

What an ass the man must be who set such a question! 

“There are no illustrations of this theory in history/' 
he wrote. 

With the smile of one who has worked well, he blotted 
his papers, wrote his name at the top, and to the consterna- 
tion of the master in charge showed them up and walked 
out. 

He was “finishing in style." On Thursday the rain 
stopped at last, and the Senior final began. 

“Foster," said Gordon, as the two walked down to the 
field, “I believe ours is one of the very worst sides that ever 
got into the final. There are two Firsts, you and I. Collins 
was tried for the Colts two years ago. There are eight 
others." 

“Oh, you forget Bray, a fine, free bat with an un- 
orthodox style. But ... I believe he made fourteen on a 
House game the other day." 

“Yes, that is a recommendation, of course, but somehow 
I don't think we shall win, you know." 

“Win!" echoed Foster. “We shall be lucky if we avoid 
an innings defeat.” 

And this supposition proved still more likely when half- 
an-hour later the House, having won the toss, had lost 
three wickets for as many runs. Jack Whitaker, now 
captain of Buller’s, had gone on to bowl first from the end 
nearest the National Schools. In his first over he had 
clean bowled Gordon, and in the next he got Foster leg 
before, and Bradford caught in the slips. 

“I foresee," said Collins, “that we shall spend most of 
this game fielding. A poor way of occupying our last 
few days." 

“That’s where I score," said Gordon; “the wicket-keeper 
has no running to do, and, besides, I rather enjoy a game 
in which there is nothing to lose, no anxiety or anything. 
It is a peaceful end to a turgid career. . . . Oh, well hit!" 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 329 

Bray had just lifted a length ball off the middle stump 
over short-leg's head. 

“That's the sort of cricket I like,” said Gordon; “a 
splendid contempt for all laws and regulations. Heavens! 
there he goes again!” 

A lucky snick flew over the slips to the boundary. 

“This is something like,” said Foster, and prepared to 
enjoy himself. 

And certainly Bray's cricket was most entertaining. He 
treated every ball the same; he stepped straight down the 
pitch with his left foot, raised his bat in the direction of 
point and then, as the ball was bowled, he pivoted himself 
violently on his left foot and, going through a complete 
half-circle, finished, facing the wicket-keeper, with both 
feet outside the crease, but his bat well over the line. The 
chief attraction of this gymnastic feat was the unexpected- 
ness of it all. No one knew where the ball would go if it 
was hit. Once when he timed his shot a little late he 
caught the ball just as it was passing him and drove it 
flying past the wicket-keeper's head to where long-stop 
would have been. The fielding side was always glad to 
see Bray's back, and it usually did not have to wait long. 
But to-day, for some reason or other, he bore a charmed 
life. He was missed at point once, twice he gave a chance 
of being stumped, and the ball shaved his wickets times 
innumerable. But nearly every other ball he managed to 
hit somewhere. In the pavilion the School House rocked 
with laughter. 

At the other end Davenham poked about scoring singles 
here and there. The score crept up. Amid cheers in which 
laughter was blended, the fifty went up. Then Bray, in a 
particularly gallant effort to steer a ball well outside the 
off stump round to short-leg, hit, all three wickets flying out 
of the ground. It was a suitable end to a great innings. 

He received a royal welcome in the pavilion. 

“Bray, my son,” said Gordon, “you are a sportsman. 
Come to the tuckshop and have a drink. Nellie, mix this 
gentleman an ice and a lemonade, and put it down to my 


33 o THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

account. Thank you. Ah, there’s Collins. Good luck, 
Collins; keep your head.” 

Two minutes later Collins returned to the pavilion with 
a downcast face. 

“The damned think broke,” he said, as if he considered 
breaks illegal in House matches. 

The rest of the side played in the usual light-hearted 
School House spirit. There were some fine hits made, and 
some scandalous ones, too. It was rather like a cinemato- 
graph show. Everyone slammed about; the Buller’s men 
missed catches galore. Davenport was missed four times 
in making fourteen. And somehow or other the score rose 
to quite respectable heights. Byes helped considerably. 
The final score was one hundred and twenty. 

“And now,” said Collins, “we have got to field for two 
hours to-day. To-morrow is not a half, so we shall have 
to field all the time ; we sha’n’t get a knock till after roll on 
Saturday. Five hours’ fielding. Damn!” 

“And it will do you a lot of good, too,” said Foster. 
“Are you all ready, House? Come on then.” 

A-K Senior filed out into the field. A loud cheer rose 
from the crowd. The House was amazingly partisan. 
Whether a House side is losing by an innings or winning 
by two hundred runs, it is always sure of the same reception 
when it goes on to the field from its own men. The light 
had grown rather bad and Foster began bowling with the 
trees at his back, so as to hide his delivery. At the other 
end Bradford was to bowl. 

The start was sensational. 

Buller’s sent in Crampin and Mitchell first, two hefty 
footballers, with strong wrists and no science, who had run 
up some big scores in the preliminary rounds. 

Foster ran up to bowl. Crampin had a terrific swipe. 
The ball turned from the bat. The bat only just touched it. 

“How’s that?” roared Gordon. 

The finger went up. A ripple of clapping ran along the 
side of the ground. 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 


33i 

“You stick to that,” said Collins, “and we shall get them 
out by to-morrow night.” 

“Dry up,” said Gordon ironically. “Can’t you see we 
are going to win? . . . Man in!” 

Jack Whitaker came in. He was far and away the most 
stylish bat in the school, and had scored a lot of runs during 
the season. He faced the bowling quite confidently; he 
had played Foster a hundred times at the nets, and knew 
his tricks well. He played through the over with ease. 
The last ball he placed in front of short-leg for a single. 

Bradford went on to bowl. He was one of the usual 
House match class of bowler. No idea of length, or direc- 
tion, only an indefatigable energy and tremendous pace. 
His first ball was a long hop wide on the off. Whitaker 
banged it past point for four. 

The next ball was a full pitch to leg. Collins had to run 
about a hundred yards to rescue it from the road. Brad- 
ford looked fierce. He took a longer run than usual, rushed 
up to the wicket, and plunged the ball in with all his force. 
A howl of untuneful applause rose from under the trees. 
The ball not only happened to be straight, but was also a 
yorker. It was quite unplayable. Whitaker’s middle stump 
fell flat. 

There are times when a panic seizes the very best side, 
and for the next hour and a half the House had the pleasant 
experience of watching an unusually strong Buller side 
rabbit out before an only moderate attack. Buller’s side 
contained four First and two Second Eleven colours, to say 
nothing of three Colts caps. And yet by six o’clock the 
whole team was dismissed for eighty-three. There was 
nothing to account for the rot. Foster and Bradford 
bowled unchanged. Bradford took six of the wickets, four 
clean bowled. It was quite incomprehensible. 

“I can’t understand it,” said Gordon at tea. “Bradford 
was bowling the most utter drivel half the time, and I 
would have given anything to have been batting. And you 
were not bowling at your best, you know, Foster.” 

“I am well aware of that; but, heavens! it was sheer 


332 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

joy. Look at old Collins, down there, beaming at the 
thought of not having to field to-morrow." 

^It’s all right," mumbled Collins from a huge cup of tea. 

“By Jove! wouldn't it be gorgeous if we could win this 
match, and finish up by beating the Buller crowd at their 
own game?" said Gordon. “Damn it all, I don’t see why 
we shouldn’t. What we have done once we can do again. 
They are a better side, I know, but we’ll have a damned 
good shot at winning.’’ 

Of course Buller’s laughed at the whole thing. 

“It’s really rather funny,’’ they said. “But, of course, we 
are in absolutely no danger of losing. We couldn’t wreck 
like that again; and, what’s more, we shouldn’t let an ass 
like Bray make so many runs again. Oh, we are quite 
safe!" 

The School House kept quiet. They were not going to 
shout their hopes all over the school. It would look so 
bad if they got thoroughly beaten in the end. But in the 
studies and dormitories that night there was only one 
thought in all those minds — the thought that victory was 
just possible. 

The next day it rained the whole time. The courts were 
flooded with water, the branches dripped with a tired 
languor. Gordon polished off two exams with his masterly 
speed, and returned to his study. 

Saturday morning broke grey and wet. It rained spas- 
modically till midday, and then cleared up. With a sigh 
of relief Gordon walked up the big schoolroom to show up 
the last piece of work that he would do at Fernhurst. For 
a last composition it was hardly creditable. A long paper 
on the (Edipus Tyrannus was finished in under an hour. 
But Gordon had ceased to care for academic distinctions. 
As he closed the door of the big school, and went out into 
the cloisters, he realised that a certain stage of his journey 
was over and done with for ever. 

By lunch-time all signs of rain had cleared off, and the 
sun shone down on an absolutely sodden ground. Runs 
would be very hard to get. A lead of thirty-seven meant a 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 


333 

lot on such a wicket. An atmosphere of nervous expecta- 
tion overhung the whole Hpuse. Everyone was glad when 
the meal was over. 

The match began directly after lunch. There would be 
very likely some difficulty in finishing the game that day. 
Collins and Foster went in first. Gordon had asked to be 
kept back till later. The start was dull. Foster was taking 
no risks, and Collins seemed quite unable to hit the ball 
at all, which was luckily always off the wicket. Ten went 
up after quarter of an hour’s play. 

And then Foster, reaching out to play forward, slipped 
on the wet grass and was stumped. Three balls later Brad- 
ford was caught and bowled. It was Gordon’s turn to 
go in. Nearly everything depended on him. If he failed, 
the whole side would probably collapse. The tail had done 
miracles in the first innings; but it could not be expected 
to do the same again. 

Gordon took guard nervously. He resolved to play him- 
self in carefully, but he never could resist the temptation 
to have a “go.” The first ball was well up, just outside 
the off stump. Gordon stepped across and let fly. On an 
ordinary wicket it would have been quite all right. But 
he had forgotten how slow the pitch was. The ball hung 
in the air; he was much too soon; the ball sailed straight 
up into the air! Point and cover-point both ran for it. 
“Crampin!” yelled out Whitaker. Neither heard; they 
crashed into one another; the ball fell with a dull thud. 
The House gave a gasp of relief. 

It was a costly mistake. For when once he got his eye 
in, Gordon was very hard to get out. And, moreover, 
he was one of the few people who could get runs quickly 
on a really wet wicket, for the simple reason that nearly 
all his shots went into the air; and so he did not find the 
sodden ground making off drives which should have re- 
sulted in fours only realise singles. 

That afternoon Gordon found the bowling perfectly 
simple. At the other end wickets fell slowly, but he him- 
self was scoring fast. A hard shot over cover-point sent 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


334 

up his individual fifty, and two overs later he drove a 
length ball on the off stump past mid on to the boundary, 
and the hundred went up amid cheers. 

“It is a mystery to me,” said Foster, “how that man 
Caruthers ever gets a run at all; he has no defence, and 
hits straight across everything.” 

“Don’t let’s worry about that,” said Collins; “sufficient 
be it that he is hitting these Buller’s swine all over the place. 
Oh, good shot!” 

A half-volley had landed first bounce among the masters 
sitting under the wall. The umpire signalled six. 

One hundred and fifty vrent up. 

And then Gordon mistimed a slow yorker, and was clean 
bowled for eighty-five. 

He was received with a storm of clapping; the House 
lined up cheering as he ran in between the ropes. 

“Gratters! Well done!” shouted Foster. “That’s a 
damned fine knock to finish your Fernhurst cricket days 
with! Well done!” 

Everyone came up and congratulated him. It was a 
proud moment, in some ways the proudest of his whole 
career. 

A few minutes later another burst of clapping signalled 
the end of the innings. The side had made one hundred 
and eighty-six. Buller’s were left with two hundred and 
twenty-three to win. Anything might happen. Just before 
five Foster led the House on to the field. 

The next hour and a half was fraught with delirious 
happiness and excitement. Foster bowled magnificently, 
Bradford managed to keep a length; the whole side fielded 
splendidly. Wicket after wicket fell. Victory became a 
certainty. Gloom descended over the Buller’s side. Round 
the pavilion infants with magenta hat ribbons yelled them- 
selves hoarse. It was one of those occasions in which 
eternity seems compressed into an hour. Half-past six 
came. No one went up to tea, everyone was waiting for 
the end. At last it came. Whitaker, who alone had been 
able to withstand the School House attack, over-reached 


THE THINGS THAT SEEM 


335 

himself, Gordon gathered the ball quickly, the bails flew off. 
The umpire’s hand rose. A wild shriek rose from the 
crowd. Gordon’s last game at Fernhurst was over ; his last 
triumph had come; at last “Samson had quit himself like 
Samson.” Through the lines of shrieking juniors the team 
passed into the pavilion. Gordon began to collect his things, 
to pack up his bag. He gave it to a fag to carry up. 

Collins and Foster and Gordon walked up from the field 
arm in arm. 

“Well, if we stopped on here for a hundred years,” said 
Foster, “we shouldn’t find a better hour to leave.” 

“Yes, the end has made up for any disappointments on 
the way. It will be a long time before we have as won- 
derful a time again,” Gordon said, as he passed in the 
sunset, for the last time, through the gate of the cricket- 
field which had been, for him, the place of so many happy 
hours. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 

'TpO Gordon this match seemed the ideal rounding off of 
A his career. There had been no anti-climax, with him 
the best had come at the end. He would not have to look 
back and compare his last term unfavourably with the 
glories of yester year. He had done what he set out to do, 
he would step rose-garlanded out of the lighted room, in 
the flush of his success. It was exactly as he had wished. 
Perfectly satisfied, he lay back in his chair, with his feet 
on the table, too tired to do anything, merely thinking. 

There was a knock at the door. 

“Come in.” 

Rudd came in nervously with a House list in his hand. 

“Oh, Caruthers, the Chief wants a list of the trains 
people are going home by.” 

“Eight-forty to Waterloo. Thank you. Don’t forget to 
close the door.” 

Rudd walked towards the door, but as he put his hand 
on the knob he turned round. 

“Well,” he began falteringly, “I suppose you are jolly 
proud of yourself now, aren’t you?” 

“What the hell do you mean?” 

“Oh, you know quite well. You have done damned 
well according to your own point of view. You have aimed 
at getting the supreme power, and you have got it all 
right.” Rudd had lost his nervousness now, he was shifting 
his feet a little, but the sentences flowed easily. “I am a 
weak head, I know, and you have managed to smash me 
quite easily. It wasn’t very hard, although you pretend 
you are the devil of a fellow.” 

336 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 337 

“What on earth are you driving at?” 

“Oh, not much ; only I want to show you how much you 
have done for the House. You are big, and you’re strong, 
and all that; you’ve broken up any authority I ever had, 
and you’ve taken it yourself. And, of course, as long as 
you are here, it’s all very well. But what about when you 
have left? You are too self-centred to see anybody else’s 
point of view. Apres moi le deluge ; that’s your philosophy. 
As long as you yourself prosper, you don’t care a damn 
what happens to anyone else, and you have prospered right 
enough. You’ll have left a name behind you, all right.” 

“I don’t want to have to kick you out, Rudd,” said 
Gordon, in a voice in which annoyance and contempt were 
equally blended. 

“I don’t care what you say; I’m going to finish what I 
have got to say. You’ll probably not understand, you are 
too short-sighted. But what sort of a future have you left 
the House ? Order was kept all right when you were here ; 
you are strong. But when you have left, who is going to 
take your place? Foster could have, but he’s leaving. 
Davenport’s leaving too, so’s Collins. The new prefects 
will be too weak. At the best they would have had a hard 
time. But probably the prefectorial dignity would have 
been sufficient, if you hadn’t smashed it up. You say 'per- 
sonality’ must rule, but there is not so much personality 
flying about. We weak men have got to shelter ourselves 
behind the strength of a system, and you have smashed 
that. No one is going to obey me next term. They know 
I am incapable ; the House will run wild ; but they wouldn’t 
have found it out but for you. That’s what you’ve done 
this term. You yourself have succeeded, but your success 
has meant the ruin of the House for at least a year, that’s 
what you have done. And I expect you are jolly proud 
of yourself, too. You only care for yourself.” 

Rudd finished exhausted, and stood there gasping. Gor- 
don looked straight at him for a second or so, then picked 
up a book and began to read; Rudd shifted from foot to 
foot for a minute and then moved out quickly. 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


338 

What an ass the man was, thought Gordon. The beaten 
man always tries to make the victor's defeat seem less. 
It is all he has to do. Damn it all, a man has to look after 
himself in this world ; everyone was struggling to get to the 
top, and the weak had to be knocked out of the way. 

Then Foster came in all aglow with excitement, and the 
two went up to the tuck-shop and ate numerous ices, and 
made a great row, and knocked over many chairs, and threw 
sugar about. Rudd was clean forgotten, as they rolled 
back triumphantly, just as the roll bell was ringing. Work 
was over. Gordon wandered round the studies, talking to 
everyone; in second hall they had a big celebration supper 
for the whole side. They had two huge pies, a ham, count- 
less eclairs; they sang songs, laughed and told anecdotes. 
They finished with the school Carmen , and drank to the 
House’s future success. Laughing and singing, they at last 
made for the dormitories, filled with a wonderful happiness 
that was exquisitely unsubstantial and beautifully fugitive. 

But when the lights went out, and silence descended on 
the dormitory, Gordon began to think of his conversation 
with Rudd ; and, as he thought, there came over him again 
the fierce longing to get to the heart of things and to see 
life as it was, shorn of its coverings. Looking at his career 
from the spectator’s point of view, even Christy would have 
to own that it had been eminently successful. He had been 
captain of the House; no one had blamed him that the 
House had failed to win their matches; no one can make 
bricks without straw; what did matter was that he had 
always stood up for the House’s rights, he had never given 
way to “the Bull,” he had been strong. This last term he 
had been head of the House in all but name; he had won 
the batting cup; and he had finished by playing a big part 
in the biggest triumph that the House had achieved for 
several years. In all outward aspects he had been a great 
success. 

But Gordon had had enough of outward aspects. He 
wanted to get to the root of things, to get on terms of 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 339 

equality with life ; he was tired of seeing everything through 
flickering glass. What had he actually done? 

And when he began to sum up his achievements, he was 
forced to own that most of them were athletic triumphs, 
and athletics meant little to him. He had long ceased to 
worship them. Because a man could make a big score in a 
House match, it did not mean that he was in any way fit 
for the battle of life ; and what else had he done ? He had 
carried on a sort of guerrilla warfare with “the Bull.” It 
had never come to a real head ; so little really does. Most 
things are left unaccomplished in the end; and what had 
he gained by this contest, and what had been the use of it? 
“The Bull” was one of the few really fine masters in the 
school. He was a man, and towered above the puny pet- 
tiness of Rogers and Christy; the rest were nonentities. 
Buller had reached his position of authority because he 
was the “noblest Roman of them all,” and yet Gordon had 
spent a whole year fighting against a man whom he really 
admired. It was, of course, the inevitable clash of two 
egotisms; but that did not alter the facts. He had been 
wasting himself fighting against a really fine man, when 
there were so many rotten traditions and useless customs 
that ought to be attacked ; but he had let them alone. The 
only abuse he had attacked was the worship of sport, and 
he began to wonder whether it had been worth it. Might 
it not have been better to have let the school go on believing 
in its gods a little longer? They would be disillusioned, as 
he had been disillusioned, sooner or later. But why not 
let them be happy in their illusions as long as possible? 
Happiness was so fugitive; and in illusions only are we 
ever really happy. Life was so uncertain, too. He had 
broken down a false god, but had he given them anything 
to worship in its stead? Better a false god than no god 
at all. He had left the School agnostics as far as school 
politics were concerned. They were adrift, they had begun 
to see how fatuous their worship of sport had been, but they 
had nothing to worship in its place. They would get list- 


340 THE LOOM OF YOUTH 

less, apathetic, inert; and enthusiasm was the only vital 
thing in life. 

And what else had he done? Rudd had been right. He 
had smashed through a garden of dandelions. He had 
rooted up flowers and weeds indiscriminately. It had been 
quite easy; he had done nothing wonderful; and he had 
left desolation behind him. Nothing would grow for some 
time in the plot he had ruined. And yet he was “a great 
success,” the world said. 

And as he reasoned it out, a wild feeling of hatred for the 
world and all it stood for crept over him. It was all sham. 
No one looked beyond the surface of things. “Only the 
superficial do not judge by appear ances,” Wilde had said, 
mocking at society; and he had been right. Life was all 
sham. It was a mass of muddled evolutions; the world 
was too slack to find out the truth, or perhaps it was afraid 
to discover it. For the truth was not pleasant. Gordon 
did not know what it was; all he saw was that life was 
built of shams, that no one worshipped anything but the 
god of things that seem. A wild wrath surged over him; 
he lay supine, cursing at the darkness, till at last sleep, 
with the great gift of oblivion, brought peace to his weary 
brain. 

The next morning he woke with the same feeling of 
depression; he looked round his dormitory. There were 
seven of them, all perfectly happy and contented. And 
why? Merely because they looked at the surface only, 
because they did not take the trouble to find out what was 
true and what was false. They were happy in their igno- 
rance, and he, too, could be happy if he just took things as 
they were. His last few weeks had been so full of joy, 
because he had not taken the trouble to think. Thought 
was the cause of unhappiness. And yet he had to think. 
He hated half measures. For a certain space he had to 
live on earth, and he wanted to discover what life really 
was. What lay beyond the grave he did not know, “suf- 
ficient for the day were the day’s evil things.” But he 
felt that he must try and plumb the depth or shallowness of 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 341 

the day’s interests. He could not bear the idea of a con- 
tentment purchased by cowardice, by the fear to tear down 
the veils of superficial gossamer, and see life as it was. 

Yet he had learnt from Tester that the soul is man’s 
most sacred possession, and must not be shown to the crowd, 
that he must always mask his true emotions, except in the 
company of those who could understand them. 

So he went down to breakfast telling Collins the latest 
joke from The London Mail. On his way back to the 
studies he ran into a fag. 

“Oh, Caruthers,” he said, “Chief wants to see you in his 
study.” 

Gordon found the Chief waiting for him. 

“You are not busy, I hope, are you, Caruthers?” 

“Oh no, sir.” 

“Well, at any rate, I shall keep you only for a minute. 
I just wanted to speak to you for a second before you left. 
Everything is such a rush on the last day. I suppose you 
have found that authority brings a good many difficulties 
with it, and I have heard that you have had a row or two. 
But I think you have done very well on the whole. I did 
not say very much about it at the time, but about two years 
ago I had very grave doubts about how you were going to 
turn out; and I must say that I was very nervous about 
making you a prefect. But, still, I think your last year has 
really developed your character, and you certainly have had 
the wisdom and luck, shall we say, like the host at the 
wedding, to keep your best till last.” 

The Chief smiled the smile that was peculiarly his own, 
and peculiarly winning. “Well, I must not keep you any 
longer. But I did want to take this opportunity of telling 
you that I have been pleased with you this term, though 
perhaps my praise sounds weak beside the applause you 
got after your innings. Well, at any rate, I wish you the 
very best luck. I am sure you deserve it.” 

With mixed feelings Gordon left the study. He valued 
the Chief’s opinion amazingly, but he could not help know- 
ing that he did not deserve it. He felt somehow as though 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


342 

he had deceived the Chief. If only the Chief knew how 
he had plunged along in his own way, an egotist, an icono- 
clast! And then suddenly there came over him the shock 
of discovery, that everything in life was so distorted and 
hidden by superficial coverings, that even the wisest failed 
to discern between the true and the false. 

He was able to see himself as he was, to realise the little- 
ness of his own performances. Yet the Chief who, if any- 
one "‘saw life steadily, and saw it whole; ” who was always 
more ready to judge an action by the intention than by the 
result — the Chief himself had not really seen how far his 
achievements were below his possibilities. And if the Chief 
was at times deceived by the superficial, how was he, a 
self-willed, blundering boy, ever likely to be able to come 
to a true understanding? 

There was only one way of ever coming to correct 
decisions, and that was by a comparison with known, 
well-defined standards. But he had no standards by which 
to regulate his judgments. He had often felt the need of 
this before, but never so much as now. If anything of 
what Tester had said was true, the future was going to be 
very hard. False gods would be set up in the market-place. 
There would be new creeds, and new religions. He himself 
was so volatile, so open to the influence of the minute ; and 
he had no standards by which to tell the jewel from the 
paste. For he had yet to find something permanent, some- 
thing that would stand the test of time. In his own life 
there was nothing accompanying him to the end. And in 
the lives of others he noted the same lack of anything that 
would last. Youth with its rainbow colours, its laughter, 
and its tears, was as fugitive as the sunlight. Love changes 
all too soon its wonderful unexpectedness for the drab of 
commonplace. “Aimes ce que jamais on ne verra pas deux 
fois,” de Vigny had complained, knowing that the ideal 
would soon be shattered. On the outside so many things 
were fair ; but on examination they all fell to pieces. Swin- 
burne had never for a moment expected that a kiss would 
last beyond the kissing; his philosophy was one of a splen- 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 343 

did resignation. For him sleep alone was eternal. Mar- 
lowe, Byron, Rossetti, even Shakespeare — they had all seen 
it. They had taken the sweets of the moment, and tried 
not to think of what would follow. Gordon could not do 
the same; his generation was far too self-conscious for 
that; it must analyse its emotions, dissect its pleasures, till 
in the end it finds nothing left. 

Nothing. That was the awful dread. In four years of 
varied experience, was there not one thing which Gordon 
could carry with him to light the darkness? And, looking 
back, Gordon could find in all his host of memories 
nothing that was not too intangible, too fugitive, to bear the 
stress even of a summer breeze. 

But away with melancholy! Still there remained a few 
hours in which to enjoy the fruits of a success which, if it 
meant little to him, conveyed a good deal to the world 
outside. And power is very sweet. 

He tried to fling himself into the light-hearted atmosphere 
of rejoicing in which the whole House was revelling, but 
he found it impossible. His laughter was forced; yet his 
friends, who were not particularly subtle judges of char- 
acter, noticed no change in him ; he was to them just as he 
had always been. 

Even Morcombe, who was to him more than other friends, 
had failed to understand. 

"It must be rather decent to be leaving in the way you 
are,” he said, as they were sitting in the games study before 
evening chapel. “You are at the very top of your power. 
If you stopped on you would probably do a good many big 
things, but I doubt if you would ever quite equal the appro- 
priateness of that last innings.” 

“Yes,” said Gordon, with a conscious irony, “it's cer- 
tainly dramatic.” 

What use was it to try and show him what he was think- 
ing? He had learnt that it is better to leave illusions un- 
touched. 

Often in the past he had tried to imagine what a last 
chapel service must be like. The subject has been done to 


344 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


death, of course, by the novelist. In every school story 
he had read the hero had always felt the same emotions: 
contentment with work well done, sorrow at leaving a well- 
loved place. He had wondered whether he would want to 
cry ; and if so, whether he would be able to stop it. He had 
looked inquiringly in the faces of those who were leaving 
and had never read anything very new. Some were enig- 
mas; some looked glad in a way that they were going to 
begin a life so full of possibilities. Some vaguely realised 
that they had reached the height of their success at nine- 
teen. 

But now that his time had come, his thoughts were very 
different from what he had imagined. He felt the sorrow 
that is inevitable to anyone who is putting a stage of his 
life clean out of sight behind him; but for all that he had 
come to the conclusion that he was not really sad at leaving. 
Fernhurst was for him too full of ghosts; so many dreams 
were buried there. His feelings were mixed. He felt 
himself that he had failed, but he knew that he was hailed a 
success. He half wished that in the light of experience he 
could go through his four years again; but if he did, he 
saw that in outward show, at any rate, he could never eclipse 
the glory that was his for the moment. He remembered 
that sermon over three years back in which the Chief had 
asked each boy to imagine himself passing his last hours at 
school. “How will it feel ” the Chief had said, “if you have 
to look back and think only of shattered hopes and bright 
unfulfilled promises f ... To the pathos of human sorrow 
there is no need to add the pathos of failure.” What was he 
to think ? — he whose career had so curiously mingled failure 
and success. The predominant impression was one of 
anxiety. The world was full of pretence and deceit, and 
he had no means of testing the real and the unreal. 

The service slowly drew to its end. The final hymn was 
shouted by small boys, happy at the thought of seven weeks' 
holiday. The organ boomed out God Save the King; there 
was a moment's silence. Then the school poured out into 
the cloisters. Gordon hardly realised his last service was 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 345 

over. He had been so long a spectator of these partings 
that he could not grasp the fact that he was himself a par- 
ticipator in them. 

He felt very tired, and was glad when bed-time came. He 
experienced the same sensations that he had known as a 
new boy — a physical and mental weariness that longed for 
the ending of the day. 

For a few hours silence hung round the ghostly Abbey; 
then, tremendous in the east, Gordon’s last whole day at 
Fernhurst dawned. 

As far as the Sixth were concerned, work was over. The 
rest of the school had to go in for two hours for the rep. 
exam. The drowsy atmosphere of a hot summer morn- 
ing overhung everything. The studies were very quiet. 
Gordon took a deck-chair onto the Sixth Form green and 
settled down to read Endymion. 

But he found it almost impossible to concentrate his 
thoughts on anything but the riotous wave of introspection 
that was flooding his brain. He soon gave up the attempt ; 
and putting down the book, he lay back, his hands behind 
his head, gazing at the great grey Abbey opposite him, 
while through his brain ran Gilbert Cannan’s words: “Life 
is round the corner.” He had failed. He knew he had 
failed. But where and why? Then, as he began to ques- 
tion himself, suddenly he saw it all clearly. He had failed 
because he had set out to gain only the things that the 
world valued. He had sought power, and he had gained 
it^; he had asked for praise, and he had won it; he had 
fought, and he had conquered. But at the moment of his 
triumph he had realised the vanity of all such success ; when 
he had come to probe it to the root, he had found it shallow. 
For all the things that the world valued were shallow and 
without depth, because the world never looked below the 
surface. He had found no continuing city; his house was 
built upon sand. 

The truth flashed in on him; he knew now that as long 
as he was content to take the world’s view of anything, he 
was bound to meet with disillusionment. He would have 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


346 

to sift everything in the sieve of his own experience. The 
judgment of others would be of no avail. He would be an 
iconoclast. The fact that the world said a thing was beauti- 
ful or ugly, and had to be treated as such, must mean noth- 
ing to him. He would search for himself, he would plumb 
the depths, if needs be, in search of the true ideal which was 
lurking somewhere in the dark. Tester had been right. 
It was useless to look back to the past for guidance. He 
had a few hours back asked for some fixed standard by 
which to judge the false from the true. There were no 
standards except a man's own experience. Here at Fern- 
hurst he had failed to find anything, because he had sought 
for the wrong things ; he had at once accepted the crowd's 
statement for the truth. Now it would be different. In his 
haste he had said that Fernhurst had taught him nothing. 
He had been wrong. It had taught him what many took 
years to learn, and sometimes never learnt at all. It had 
taught him to rely upon himself. In the future he would 
take his courage in his hands, and work out his own salva- 
tion on the hard hill-road of experience. 

The school was just pouring out from the rep. exam. He 
heard Foster shouting across the courts. 

“Caruthers, you slacker, come up to the tuck-shop.” 

“Right-o !” he yelled back; and racing across the green 
jumped the railings, and went laughing up to the tuck-shop. 

“I say, Foster, let’s have a big tea this afternoon. We 
had a supper for the A-K side on Saturday. Let's have the 
rest up to-day.” 

Gordon felt flushed with excitement of what lay before 
him. He wanted everyone else to laugh with him too. An 
enormous tea was ordered. Men from the outhouses came 
down, the tables were drawn up on the V. A green, and 
the afternoon went by in a whirl of happiness. From here 
they rolled out arm in arm for the prize-giving. For the 
last time Gordon saw the whole staff sitting on “their dais 
serene.” He looked at the row of faces. There they were, 
the teachers of youth, most of whom had never at any 
time penetrated to the heart of anything. They were auto- 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 


347 

mata, machines for repeating the same old platitudes. There 
was Rogers puffed out with pride; Christy, pharisee and 
humbug, superbly satisfied with himself. Finnemore sat 
in the background, a pale grey shadow, that had been too 
weak to get to grips with life at all. Trundle nursed his 
chin, twittering in a haze of indecision. Ferrers was 
fidgeting about, impatient of delay. He, at any rate, was 
not being misled by outside things; if he was misled by 
anything, it was by the impulse of his own feverish tem- 
perament. He was the splendid rebel leader of forlorn 
hopes, the survival of those 

“Lonely antagonists of destiny 
That went down scornful before many spears !* 

There, again, was Macdonald, with the same benign smile 
that time could not change. As he looked at him, Gordon 
thought that he at least could not have been deceived, that 
he must have realised early the vanity of human effort, 
but had too kind, too wide a heart to disillusion the young. 
And, above all, sat Buller, a second Garibaldi, with a heart 
of gold, an indomitable energy, a splendid sincerity, the 
most loyal of Fernhurst’s sons. And as Gordon looked his 
last at his old foe, he felt that “the Bull” was so essentially 
big, so strong, so noble of heart, that it hardly mattered 
what he worshipped. There hung round him no false 
trapping of the trickster; sincerity was the keynote of his 
life. Gordon would search in vain, perhaps, for a brighter 
lodestar. As two vessels that have journeyed a little way 
together down a river, on taking their different courses at 
the ocean mouth, signal one another “good luck,” so Gordon 
from the depth of his heart wished “the Bull” farewell and 
Godspeed. 

At last the form lists had been read out. A slight titter 
had rewarded Gordon's position of facile ultimus. The cups 
were being distributed. Gordon went up for the batting 
cups, his own individual one, and the challenge one that 
went to the House. Foster went up for the Senior cricket ; 
it was a veritable School House triumph. The Chief made 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


348 

his usual good-bye speech, kindly, hopeful, encouraging. 
The head of the school shouted “Three cheers for the 
masters !” — the gates swept open, the cloisters were filled 
with hurrying feet. 

The last hours passed all too swiftly. In a far corner 
of the gallery Gordon sat with Morgan, listening to his last 
school concert. Opposite the choir in their white shirts, 
and brushed-back hair, sang the school songs inseparable 
from the end of the school year. There was the summer 
song, the “Godspeed to those that go,” the poignant Valete : 

u We shall watch you here in our peaceful cloister. 
Faring onward, some to renoivn, to fortune, 

Some to failure — none if your hearts are loyal — 

None to dishonour.” 

To Gordon every word brought back with it a flood of 
memories. He could see himself, the small boy, reading 
those verses for the first time before he had gone to Fern- 
hurst, ignorant of what lay before him. How soon he had 
changed his fresh innocency! How soon his bright gold 
had grown dim ! Then he saw himself this time last year, 
listening to those words with an unbounded confidence, 
certain that he at least would never achieve failure. Visions 
in the twilight! And what was the dawn to bring? 

The Latin Carman began. The school stood on their 
seats and howled it out. Then came Auld Lang Syne. 
They clasped hands, swaying in chorus. The echoes of 
God Save the King shook the timbered ceiling, someone was 
shouting “Three cheers for the visitors !” ; the school surged 
towards the door; Gordon found his feet on the small stone 
stairway. He looked back once at the warm lights ; the 
honour-boards that would never bear his name ; the choir 
still in their places; the visitors putting on their coats and 
wraps. Then the stream moved on ; the picture faded out ; 
and from the courts came the noise of motors crunching on 
the gravel. 

As Gordon walked into the cool air he ran into Ferrers. 

“Good-bye, sir.” 


THE TAPESTRY COMPLETED 349 

“You are off, are you? Well, good luck. Write to me 
in the hols ; I’ll look you up if I’m in town. If not, cheer-o !” 

Hse was gone in a second. 

“ ‘So some time when the last of all our evenings 
Crowneth memorxally the last of all our days . . / ” 

Gordon murmured to himself as he walked slowly down to 
the dining hall. . . . 

The next morning there was the inevitable bustle, the 
tipping of the servants, the good-byes, the promises to write 
at least twice during the holidays, the promises which were 
never kept. 

“Here, Bamford, I say,” shouted Gordon, “take my 
bag down to the station.” 

Bamford looked almost surly at being told to do anything 
on that last day. “Authority forgets a dying king,” thought 
Gordon. His power could not have been so great if it 
began to wane almost before he had gone. 

The eight-forty came into the station, snorting and puff- 
ing. 

Gordon secured a corner seat, and leant out of the win- 
dow, shaking hands with everyone he could see. 

“You’ll be down next term, won’t you?” yelled Morgan, 
bursting as ever with good will. 

“I expect so,” said Gordon. 

But in his heart of hearts he knew that he would never 
come back. He would be afraid lest he should find the 
glamour with which he had surrounded the grey studies 
and green walks of Fernhurst merely a mist of sentiment 
that would fade away. So many things that he had believed 
in he had found untrue. But he wanted to keep fresh in 
his mind the memory of Fernhurst as he had last seen it, 
silver and beautiful in the morning sun. 

The train slowly steamed out. Hands were waved, hand- 
kerchiefs fluttered. Slowly the Abbey turned from silver 
into blue, till at last it was hidden out of sight. 

Gordon sank back into his seat. He was on the thresh- 


THE LOOM OF YOUTH 


350 

old of life; and he stepped out into the sunlight with a 
smile, which, though it might be a little cynical, as if he 
had been disillusioned, held none the less the quiet con- 
fidence of a wayfarer who knew what lay before him, and 
felt himself well equipped and fortified “for the long little- 
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